


Elevation Just Got Totaled!

by coprolite_blend



Series: Elevation Series [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 64,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coprolite_blend/pseuds/coprolite_blend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for StarTrekBigBang 2011.</p><p>Co-written with <b>thebeadmaster</b>.</p><p><b>HUMAN AU</b></p><p>James T. Kirk, Ph.D., arrived at the World Archaeological Congress (WAC) 2012 intending to unravel the mystery surrounding his father's death at the infamous and disastrous Kelvin Expedition. His one lead: Prof. Christopher Pike. But his plans were side-tracked when the Norwegian government called the United Federation of Archaeologists for an emergency Rescue Archaeology at Edge Island, Norway. Dr. Kirk suddenly finds himself in the isolated and desolate island with a group of eccentric, brilliant, and, essentially, crazed archaeologists at the site that Pike called <b>Enterprise</b>. Adventure, crack, b/romance, and angst follows the team at every turn. Then, the team suddenly found themselves on the run from treasure hunters under the erstwhile archaeologist, Nero.</p><p>Additional Warnings: Violence, Use of firearms and knives, Character Death and impossible happenings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this was co-written with **thebeadmaster**.
> 
> Inspired by the World of Archaeology and the works of our archaeology friends (who expressed to remain anonymous). Cultural Heritage FTW!!!! Love ya all! <3
> 
> This fic is extremely AU. What occurred here somewhat reflects how archaeologists work in the real world. Though the problems are true, thank the gods nothing as extreme as what is depicted here has ever happened. And we hope nothing of the sort would ever ever happen.
> 
> Many thanks to chosenfire for the poster and devyn_rose for the mix (links [here](http://coprolite.dreamwidth.org/14234.html)). Thanks to our betas, laufei and crossedlamellar, who dropped their research for a few days for the love of STAR TREK! Typos and errors are our fault.
> 
> And now, onto the fic! Happy reading everyone! Feedbacks and concrits are LOVE! Mwah! <3

  


  
poster by chosenfire28

  


  


  
**Prologue**   


The moon shed an eerie light against the frozen landscape: an image of serenity in the dawn’s glimmer.  


Yet the sight that welcomed them back did not give them such sensation, for what before their eyes was a destruction that never crossed their minds. There was evidence of fire --- melted plastics and charred wood scattered about; everything was in ruins. Each of them was thinking the same thing: the camp and the site appeared to be a facsimile of a foraged settlement from periods of violence in the history of mankind.

  
It was ironic, yet undeniably true.

  
As tears flooded down their cheeks, as screams echoed through the icy glass, as embraces tried to bring them comfort to each other, there was nothing they could do but mourn.  


 _  
My dear girl, G trusts you, as do I. _

  
Grief and anger merged that her chest tightened further at the memory.

  
 _  
Have it delivered to my family as soon as possible.   
_

  
He _knew_! That old man _somehow_ knew something like this was to happen. The realization felt like a punch on her stomach that she wanted to throw up. Hundreds of questions rushed through her head; she did not even know where to begin.  
  


The thump of Christopher’s knees hitting the ground was just another agonizing display that crushed her heart. She did not cry --- she wasn’t crying. Too shocked, she supposed, to even react.  


Morgan did not know what the future held, for her and for them, but she knew what she’d do next. For now, she watched her colleagues and friends, kept silent and clutched the small bag closely to her breasts.  


The storm had passed.  
  


So did George Kirk.

*****


	2. Chapter One

  


  
**  
**   


  
Pacing in frenzied steps, he rehearsed the lines he’d carefully prepared just for the occasion. Although he’d been at it for an hour, his mouth still sputtered words in strings of incoherence. _Padonok!_

 

He stopped in front of the sink. His tired and pale face stared back at him. It tried to smile. What was meant to be a confident beam of sunshine, his mouth faltered and his face contorted into a strange clownish grin --- a constipated clownish grin.

 

“ _Padonok_ …” he sighed. He was supposed to be a child-genius. Every test said so, and he _actually_ believed that.

 

By the age of 16, he had a BS in the top university in Russia. And every thing about his life had come easy. Until his senior year, when he saw her --- the most perfect specimen of humanity. So, instead of continuing to a career in Theoretical Physics in the University of St. Petersburg, he followed her to the Archaeology Graduate School. A year of desperate longing later, he found himself in a deserted men’s toilet, in Fanehallen of Arkshus Fortress, Oslo for the United Federation of Archaeologists’ World Archaeological Congress.

 

He ran his trembling fingers through his hair. Goodness, he looked so disheveled as though he’d run from Baba Yaga! Quickly, he splashed water over his face a couple of times before reaching for the paper towels and wiping his face dry. Ah, _much better_ , he shook his head, curly hair bouncing with new found energy. He still looked pale as a ghost, with dark rings under his eyes. Yet, he learned long ago to accept things he couldn’t change, and fight tooth and nail for the things he could.

 

Heart drumming louder than the music outside, he grinned boldly at his reflection. He slammed his knuckles to his palm, “Punch it!” Chekov left the men’s toilet and dashed his way through the crowd. Anxious and electrified, he barely heard the rumbling roar from the bar he passed by.

 

 _  
… I planned each charted course… each careful step along the byway…   
_   


 

“What do you mean, ‘you’re _out_?’” snarled McCoy, reeling himself from throwing the empty glass in his hand to the idiot barkeep in front of him. “You’ve got to be shitting me! This is a fucking bar! You can’t _tell_ me that you _ran out_ of bourbon?! What kind of business do you run?!”

 

The barman glared at him. “Well, sir,’ he began in an accented English, “The drinks are for everyone. Only you had bourbon. And you finish _all_ bourbon!” The barman dangled the empty bottle of said liquor for emphasis.

 

McCoy worked another layer of red on top of his already flushed face. He threw his arms in indignation, “Unbelievable!”

 

An efficient and almost subtle movement from his right caught the periphery of his vision that he was instantly able to halt the scotch glass that slid to his direction. The ice clinked to a stop and McCoy warily studied the golden brown liquid.

 

“Here you are, laddie,” said someone who sounded suspiciously Scottish, patting his shoulder in a comforting manner. “No need burstin’ a vein there. The scotch will make ya feel bett’r!”

 

His eyes slid to a glare, before tossing his head back, swallowing the unwelcomed drink. “Don’t ‘laddie’ me,” he growled at the scruffy stranger. Sending the bartender a last scowl, McCoy pushed himself off the counter.

 

He hadn’t even gone far when he almost collided into someone. He had tried to maneuver his steps, yet he still knocked his shoulder onto another person. _Surrounded by idiots!_ He grumbled to himself as he glowered at the impassive man, whose blank stare very obviously waited for _his_ apology. “Watch where you’re going, damnit!”

 

 _  
… I ate it up and spit it out… I faced it all and I stood tall…   
_   


 

Spock frowned as the foul-mouthed man groused his way through the cheerful, loud swarms of guests. There was something familiar about him, though that thought was easily dismissed when he heard his name, which immediately prompted him to catch up with the Professor.

 

“Professor,” began Spock as he matched his mentor’s stride. “I do not believe it is worth the effort. I am certain there are other candidates for the position.”

 

Pike turned so swift that Spock nearly crashed into him if he hadn’t stopped instantly. “Don’t worry, you’ll like him. He may not---”

 

“ _And more, much more than this, I did it myyyy waaaaaaaayyy_ ,” sang Sulu on top of his lungs atop the platform, microphone tightly clutched between his hands.

 

 _  
Man, these people need to lighten up,   
_   
he silently mused, swaying with the music. _It’s a party, not a funeral_. They should be singing karaoke with him! _“I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried… I’ve had my fill, my share of lo_ \---”

 

“Ugh,” groaned Uhura, rolling her eyes at the definitely drunk and possibly high Asian. Flipping her long dark tresses back, she surveyed her handiwork. As one of the top secretariats, she was _almost_ single-handedly responsible for organizing the Welcome Party. Everyone knew that conferences were primarily remembered for their parties. She had been working on getting her sorority, where she was the president, to score the honor of being secretariats, alongside students from the University of Oslo and the University of Heidelberg, for this year’s WAC. And everybody said that an American archaeological sorority couldn’t do it. Ha! Besides, she had a bigger reason why she needed to get the secretariat gig.

 

Gaila was talking incessantly, giggling in between strings of words, when she suddenly stopped mid-sentence. Her big green eyes grew even wider.

 

Before Uhura could even ask what was wrong, Gaila grabbed her wrist. “What’s with you?!” she exclaimed, the wine in her glass almost splattering over her chest.

 

“Ny,” Gaila whispered, leaning closely to her cheeks. “That’s him, right?”

 

Pursing her lips, she followed her friend’s gaze, which was _almost_ not the best idea. Uhura suddenly felt dizzy as she in turn held onto her friend for support. How could she not notice? The mere presence of the man had had always been picked up by her senses. She glared at the singing Asian, blaming his loud, awful, out-of-tune voice for distracting her.

 

“Well, Ny,” said Gaila, almost challengingly, “Aren’t you going?”

 

“Of course, I’m going.” That came out almost like a squeak; she faintly cleared her throat. “I didn’t get the secretariat position for nothing, you know.”

 

Gaila shook her head in amusement, ginger hair bouncing around her shoulders. “He’s hotter in person, I tell you that.”

 

“Gai…” Uhura said, eyes narrowed in warning.

 

“No, no. Don’t worry. I don’t go for stuck-up geniuses with severe OCDs and have just _one_ facial expression for every emotion. They’re too serious for me.”

 

Uhura shook her head in exasperation. “You’re dating someone back home, remember.”

 

“Not until he’s put a ring on it, honey,” smirked Gaila. “Anyway, I heard that your boy’s loaded. True?”

 

“Quite,” was her dismissive response. “Old money. Of course, that doesn’t matter, being an heiress myself. I like him for his personality. Oh, are you ok?”

 

 _  
Cough, cough._ “Yeah, there was just… something in my drink. So, are you gonna go over there or what?”

 

Smoothly, Uhura flipped back her perfectly styled hair and walked towards the object of her affection with confidence. When she was near enough to be heard, Uhura put her acting skills in action.

 

“Dr. Grayson, what a surprise!” she greeted, showing her perfectly white teeth as the man slightly turned his head to her in regard --- an unreadable expression on his striking face. “I didn’t know you’d be attending this event. Oh, you might not remember me, but we met in---”

 

“In last year’s EURASEA conference, I recall,” Spock hastily told her.

 

To Pike, he said: “With all due respect, you cannot base your approval of him on your guts. You have never met this man; I have not either. Thus, this is not about me liking him or not. His publications are mediocre at best, and---”

 

Pike held a palm up, silencing his student. “Spock, I appreciate your concern, but I would like to spend my time in something more important than explaining my decision to you or to anyone else.” He sighed at Spock’s reluctant expression. “Look, you don’t have to come with me.” His gaze shifted to the woman, then back to Spock. “I’ll see you later.” With that, Pike walked away.

 

Considering it was already a lost cause to pursue his stubborn mentor, Spock inwardly sighed and faced her. “Pardon my rudeness earlier, Miss Uhura. Professor Pike has been most tiring since we’ve come to this event.”

 

Uhura laughed, high-pitched, and covered her mouth demurely with her hand, hoping to hide her embarrassment.

 

 _  
... for what is a man… what has he got? …   
_   


 

He stopped short, glass of scotch hovering over his lips. He’d know that laugh _anywhere_. Jim smirked when his eyes found the legs, the dress, the skin and that swanlike neck.

 

“Those Cambridge bastards dinna know what they’re sayin’, I tell yah,” said Scott, his head lolling. “I’m right, _right_?”

 

“Sure you are,” confirmed Jim, draining his drink, and clapping Scott’s back. “You showed them, alright. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

 

“Eh, where ya’ goin, laddie?” whined Scott.

 

“Urgent business of an _academic_ nature just came up. Drink on, Scotty,” Jim insisted, leaving Scott with the half-bottle of scotch for company.

 

Swaggering along the way, Jim stealthily squeezed himself next to her. “Uhura, right?”

 

Her eyes suddenly widened in surprise. “ _You_!” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that dumb hick who fucks farm animals!”

 

He waggled his brows. “Well, not _only_ farm animals.” Jim roved his eyes over her. “But don’t worry, I’m willing to abandon them for you.”

 

She grimaced in disgust, which only made Jim think it was cute on her.

 

“You know this gentleman?” said the tall man behind Jim.

 

To Jim, it sounded like someone was getting territorial. Well, it was never really fun if one didn’t work for it. He raised an eyebrow and turned on his heel to face his competition.

 

And found himself staring into dark brown eyes --- they stared back with mild curiosity.

 

 _  
Adorable_ , thought Jim.

 

“No,” Uhura quickly said, glaring. 

 

“Don’t be like that,” Jim countered in his own defense. He looked at the other man, whose eyes are boring into his. To his own surprise, Jim found himself almost embarrassed, as if he needed to explain himself. “We’ve met several times in Providence. Mostly around---”

 

 _  
“Mmmyyyyyyyyyy weeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhh--- Ow!”   
_   


 

Chekov shoved the singer from the center of the stage, grabbing the microphone, ignorant of the loud thud hitting the floor. The music stopped and archaeologists from all over the world turned to him.

 

“Hello!” he said in English; his hands were sweating and his mouth was starting to dry. “I’m Pavel Andreievich Chekov from Mother Russia! I--- I am looking for Anya.” He inhaled deeply, then, “Anya, if you can hear me, I have loved you the moment I saw you. Wherever you are, know that I-I… I love you! And I will love you for-eveeeeerrr!”

 

There was a cough from the silenced audience. “I’m right here.”

 

Chekov blinked twice, boggled by the red-haired woman below the platform, just in front of him. “Oh.” He carelessly tossed the microphone back to the crazy Asian’s direction and jumped down the dais, smiling shyly at his beloved Anya.

 

Sulu immediately saved the device from falling, gripping it tight with both hands. He might be as tipsy as a paper boat, but boy, he was having fun. “Everyone having fun?”

 

The response he got was the microphone’s long and loud feedback. He tried not to sigh, he really did, but with everyone staring at him as though he’d just broken King Tut’s artefacts, he was starting to feel lost and alone. If only---

 

“I’m havin’ fun, laddie!” screamed a blonde man from the bar, waving his arms madly. “Sing some more! Sing, sing, sing!” He pumped his arms up and down, up and down, rallying the people to chant with him.

 

By some miracle, many followed his lead; Sulu beamed and as the karaoke played another tune, he began to find his rhythm to its upbeat tempo, head banging and hand tapping his thigh. Oh, he was going to _love_ this!

 

Scott gulped the last drops of his drink and sauntered to join the _happy_ , _happy_ Asian on the dais, violently parting the two blokes blocking his way to merriment whilst he slurred the lyrics of the song.

 

 _  
… It’s a crazy summer night, ‘cause you make me feel so alive! … Tutti frutti summer love! …   
_

 

It wasn’t quite obvious, but Scotty was as strong as an ox, and Jim had a buzz going, plus he was entirely engrossed with something else that had nothing to do with the happily drunk Scotsman pushing and shoving his way to clean karaoke fun.

 

 _  
Fuck!   
_   
Jim lost his balance, the force sending his feet off the ground. It was amazing that he was still able to process the matter, considering the pain that he’d feel once he’d hit the floor, and the embarrassment that would be brought onto his self. While Jim tightened his hold at the glass of scotch on one hand, the other grabbed onto nothing.

 

Slim, cold fingers wrapped itself around his wrist, like a metallic snake constricting its prey --- painful as it was, yet somehow, absurdly soft. Jim stared in surprise at the owner of those fingers, instantly noticing the man’s pale complexion against the dancing lights, which made him feel as though the northern lights itself had graced the man’s face. The pronounced Adam’s apple that bobbed invitingly at the base of the strong jaw wasn’t helping him get back on his feet. _Fuck._

 

“Jim!” shrieked Uhura.

 

That, however, got his head crashing into reality. Jim instantly got his ground back. “Oops,” he said with feigned apology, smirk returning to his lips. “Allow me to lick that off your chest.”

 

With her eyes blazing, Uhura instinctively slapped the dumb hick across his face, deliberately scratching his skin with her sharp nails before spinning on her heels and stomping away from them.

 

Damn, she was supposed to be Jim’s diversion. But she was the devil, shoving the man towards him, figuratively _and_ literally. Jim nearly lost his balance again from the heat emitting from the man. He inwardly sighed both in relief and frustration when the other stepped back.

 

“You’re bleeding,” said the man, voice so deep.

 

“Man, she’s feisty,” Jim remarked, absently running his fingers on the scratch on his cheek; a smear of blood on his fingertips. “I should have asked for her first name again before I said that.”

 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Although I believe Miss Uhura’s action was unwarranted since the incident was not in your control, you still deserved to be slapped for being crass.”

 

Helplessly, Spock wondered why he was still speaking with him. He could just walk away, go and search for Pike, yet he found himself intrigued by the stranger’s command of presence. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, he wanted to know just who was this rude, arrogant man in front of him was.

 

“Heh, look at you, defending her honor,” said Jim, with a crooked smile. “And they say chivalry is dead these modern days.”

 

“I do not---”

 

Jim slowly leaned forward, a smirk on his lips, until their faces were only few inches apart. “Really? Is that how you woo women, acting like their knight in shining armor and saving their damsel selves from distress?”

 

“Miss Uhura was far from a damsel in distress,” countered Spock smoothly, eyes looking straight at the other, not backing away from the challenge. “She appears to know how to take care of herself, especially from you.”

 

“Like me, eh?”

 

A snort, and then, without Spock’s notice, something warm ghosted the skin under his jaw. His hand instantly shot out upon reflex, tightly grasping the man’s wrist. His eyes hardened to a piercing glare.

 

Jim chuckled as he distanced the space between them, yanking his hand from the hold, which was easily released. “I see. You don’t like to be touched.”

 

No answer came.

 

But there was something in this dark-haired man’s eyes. He was starting to learn the trick. He needed to look for clues, like the quick narrowing of the eyes, the smallest sigh, the slightest tightening of the lips. He couldn’t blink, or else he’d miss it. It was like a puzzle that Jim smugly thought only he could decipher. And the prize was his to take.

 

 _  
He can’t do this. Not now. There were other things he needed to take care of.   
_   


 

“I’d love to stay and chat, but this place is not my kind of scene.” With a mocking salute of his half-filled glass and a wink, Jim moved away. “See you around, gorgeous.”

 

Spock swallowed the insult he’d wanted to shout. It was unacceptable that he’d lose control for the likes of him, yet he could not stop himself from trailing his gaze to the man’s departing figure. Somehow, he felt as though he’d encounter him again, and Spock internally groaned. Just with that thought, an ache began to form in his head.

 

The sudden grip on his arm made him flinch, but was immediately replaced with relief when he recognized who it was. Spock hid his discomfort.

 

“I can’t find him,” grunted Pike in frustration. “I’ve asked around, but all I’ve got was they’ve never heard of him.”

 

“Perhaps he is not in attendance,” Spock said, trying to placate his mentor, who had evidently lost his patience. “Again, there are others fit for the position.”

 

Pike shook his head. “No, Spock, he’s here. I know he is! And he’s the only one I want for it.” He threaded a hand through his hair, eyes searching. “Maybe I’ll find him in the plenary session. Let’s get out of here.”

 

On the dais, Scott and Sulu had their arms over each other’s shoulders, swaying left and right along with the beat as they sang and danced together, _“It’s a crazy, crazy night, having you here by my side. It’s a crazy summer night, cause you make feel so alive---”_

 

Amidst the noise, Spock heard his mentor grumble, “Where the hell are you, James Tiberius Kirk?”

 

As Spock followed Pike out of the room, he absently touched the side of his jaw where the man had touched him.

 

“Sulu! Sulu! Sulu!” the crowd chanted as the doors slowly closed behind them.

 

Moving down the road, Jim kept his hands within his pockets. He shivered under his leather jacket. Damn, it was summer and it felt like early spring. Christ! It was a really fucked up night. What he needed right now was to get piss ass drunk, and there was only one man who knew how to do it. But he did not find him anywhere back at the party before… _all that_.

 

Jim prayed to his lucky stars that he was going the right way because he gave up reading the signs a while back. The Norwegian university students he’d asked said that the nearest bar was down that road. It shouldn’t be that far. This is a university after all, and students needed their booze. Soon enough, he finally found what he was looking for.

 

Beaming, he jogged towards the bar, grateful for the heat that greeted him. As he removed his leather jacket, Jim paused, a wide grin then split his lips. He walked directly towards the counter, waving the barman for a lager as he sat on the barstool.

 

Deliberately, Jim clapped the back of the hunched figure beside him, causing the man to choke on his drink.

 

“Damnit, Jim!”

 

***   


  


  


As soon as the session, where he had presented his paper, was over, McCoy gathered his notes, shoving it together with his laptop into his messenger bag, and was out of the function room, immediately making his way towards the lobby and out of the hotel.

 

Once outside, McCoy considered smoking first, but then dismissed the idea since he really should be getting to the Museum of Cultural History, which was a long way from where he was now. And he couldn’t afford to be late. Grunting, he began his trek, still itching for a cigarette.

 

 _  
Walking distance, my ass,_ he grunted to himself as he continued to walk.

 

To be fair, the two venues were indeed a walking distance --- just a really, really, really long one. McCoy looked at the map he’d printed days before he left for Oslo. Right, he should go straight down the road, then left, straight again, cross the road and then go through the first road on the right. From there, he’d be able to see the museum.

 

Whichever of the organizers thought it was a _great_ idea to have the six most significant plenary sessions at the museum and have the parallel and remaining plenary sessions at the Radisson Blu Scandinavia Hotel, he, she or they should keep themselves unknown, because McCoy was going to have some words with them, and even hit or stab them with his trowel the moment he found who they were. Several times. Repeatedly. Without mercy. Hippocratic Oath be damned.

 

He felt harassed. The 2008 World Archaeological Congress in Dublin wasn’t as hassled as this. At least though, the participants of this year’s WAC were able to get discounts from the hotels surrounding the venues. The sponsoring organizations must be loaded then --- he should know. This was the smoothest time he’d had for grant application. It just took a letter from his Dean, his United Federation of Archaeologist membership I.D., a letter from Red Cross, and a letter from his session head confirming his paper’s acceptance. A week later, he got a check from the Wenner-Gren Foundation and plane tickets from WAC, courtesy of the Norwegian government. It was then that it dawned on him that WAC got lucky with Christopher Pike since, as it turned out, to be one of the most well funded WAC in the history of the Federation. Prof. Claire Smith should be licking Pike’s boots.

 

The down side was that there were three times as many people and booking a place to stay was a pain. McCoy was lucky enough to be one of those people who were able to reserve a room in the hotel venue itself, booking accommodations a month earlier. To cut the cost this whole thing was eating from his personal pocket, he was able to drag Jim to attend the conference, and now they shared a standard room with two beds at the hotel venue.

 

Well, it was the other way around actually, as he had had no plans to cross the Pacific Ocean, endure about twenty-four hours of non-stop flights and eat crappy, expensive airport foods. And he _hated_ flying --- it made him claustrophobic. Putting himself in a temporary coma with two sleeping pills usually did the trick though.

 

But Jim had called him, and McCoy thanked all the gods he knew that the call wasn’t collect, and cajoled him into attending the event. His friend wouldn’t tell him the reason behind his insistence, yet had promised to as soon as he was in Wellington with him. And the moment McCoy had sighed into the receiver, he’d heard Jim whooped in joy and excitement, telling him that he’d be flying in a week and had already booked the flight. McCoy could only grunt as the call ended, before leaving his office an hour early; he had a bottle to nurse and a guest room to prepare back at his apartment.

 

Jim had only stayed for five days, as he had to go to Hong Kong for some business McCoy was not privy to. They’d agreed to meet in Oslo on the first day of the conference.

 

He did not know why the hell he tolerated Jim’s presence in his life. The younger man was loud, cheerful and easy-going, as though he carried no baggage and dragged a few more as he continued to live on. But Jim was surprisingly mature for his age, and the guy sure could match his drinking.

 

His easy friendship with Jim had begun back in 2009, during the 19th Indo-Pacific Prehistoric Association (IPPA) Congress in Hanoi, Vietnam. Their paths did not cross until the third night, when their Vietnamese hosts threw a party for their Asian pals, which was a separate event from the already on-going drinking and happy hour the Australians --- courtesy of Grandpa Bellwood, was throwing. The small eatery was only a block away from the conference venue, and Sulu had literally hauled him to the party. He remembered pointing out that he was an American, very clearly not Asian, but Sulu just dismissed his protests citing the fact that he was indeed an American who just happened to be living in Wellington, working as a Senior Lecturer in Victoria University, and since New Zealand was surrounded by the Pacific Ocean, that thus made him a “Pacific Islander” like him.

 

“We’re practically above the same tectonic plate!” Sulu had exclaimed, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, which made his eyes appear like two concave lines, and gripping his arm still --- refusing to let him go.

 

He seriously did not understand the logic running through Sulu’s head that night, but once the Asian told him that the beer they’d be having was far much better than the other party, McCoy found himself agreeing. When they arrived at the small eatery, which their Vietnamese colleagues had reserved exclusively for them that night, McCoy had met Jim, who was already enjoying himself with the Thais, Vietnamese, Filipinos, and Japanese on two long tables, where everyone was laughing, drinking and taking turns singing karaoke.

 

Seeing a fellow American and another Irish man, whose name he’d long forgotten and who could actually speak Thai, put McCoy a little at ease. In the least, he wouldn’t feel out of place. Not that he did, but most of them were _kids_ , never mind that they were all legal enough to drink. Even Sulu could be counted as one.

 

As the night drew in, McCoy had excused himself, earning him whiny groans from the children. He had assured them that he’d return after he’d had a stick or two outside, which immediately cheered them up. Once he was out the door, he shivered at the cold wind, and lit the stick hanging between his lips.

 

Minutes passed before somebody else joined him leaning by the wall, asking for a stick, to which McCoy just grunted as he took out his pack and relinquished one.

 

“Thanks,” Jim said, after puffing out the smokes. “Man, it’s like a sauna in there.”

 

McCoy snorted, “I know. I was there.”

 

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Jim easily remarked, taking another drag. “You looked like you were constipated back there.”

 

“And you looked like you’re about to devour two of the girls.”

 

Jim laughed loudly at that. “Just some harmless flirting, old man. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice half of the girls were making googly eyes at you.”

 

“They’re kids,” he said.

 

“Hmm,” drawled Jim. “A moral man, good to know they aren’t extinct yet.”

 

McCoy didn’t answer, but instead he just lighted another stick. They did not have another conversation after that.

 

Unfortunately, he was a lousy seer.

 

McCoy only went to the States twice in a year since he’d moved to Wellington: on Joanna’s birthday and Thanksgiving or Christmas, depending on his work schedule. Those were fixed points in his timetable. Another reason he went back to his home country was for some conferences on both his professions.

 

Three months had almost passed since the IPPA when he and Jim met again at the Louisiana Archaeological Society (LAS) and Massachusetts Archaeological Association (MAA) Joint Annual Archaeology Meeting in Los Angeles, California. Needless to say, McCoy was surprised when he saw him by the registration table, and even more surprised when Jim recognized him.

 

They’d hanged out then, drinking night after night during the conference week. McCoy learned that Jim was only in the second semester of his first year in the MS-PhD Archaeology program of the University of New Mexico, and that his adviser had told him to attend archaeological conferences as much as he could, especially international ones, and publish at least two research papers a year. McCoy thought that was a bit extreme, telling Jim just that. Jim had laughed and said he was planning to earn his doctorate degree in three years, an extra term at most, which was just absurd since almost all MS-PhD or MA-PhD Archaeology programs in the US took at _least_ five years.

 

But Jim was stubborn, “I can do it. My adviser said she’d help me out as long as I don’t do anything too stupid.”

 

“You better not be sleeping your way to your doctorate,” he had grumbled, mostly to his glass of bourbon.

 

Jim had heard him though, and gave another laugh. “Well, that depends. Anyway, I’ve got from… that Asian guy --- what’s his name again? The one you came in with back in Hanoi?”

 

There was only one persistent Asian guy he knew, who had _never ever_ cowered from him, no matter how much he scowled. “Sulu?”

 

“Yeah, that guy!” confirmed Jim, after a moment of thinking. “Sulu. He said something about you rotting away in your office in Wellington.”

 

McCoy narrowed his eyes. “What about it?”

 

Another chuckle, “Don’t get grumpy, old man. He was just complaining to me how he almost begged you --- on his _knees_ at that, just to get you to the party and loosen up. What I don’t get is why you’re in New Zealand. It’s obvious that you’re from around here. Let me guess, a drawl and a healthy obsession with bourbon. I’d say you’re from the south. Kentucky?”

 

“Georgia,” corrected McCoy. “Did my undergrad at Georgia Institute and went to med school in Mississippi.”

 

Jim whistled, clearly amazed. “Wellington’s a _long_ way.”

 

McCoy rolled his eyes. “You think?” Refilling his glass, he said, “Ex-wife took the whole country; I got nothing. All I’ve got left are my bones.”

 

“And you’ve got a doctorate degree in Archaeology,” said Jim, eyes lighting up. “You, Doctor Leonard McCoy, have just thoroughly _impressed_ me. And let me tell you, that’s a hard feat.”

 

“You gonna stalk me now, aren’t you, kid?”

 

With another laugh, Jim raised his glass for a toast and said, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

 

And it was.

 

McCoy fell into a habit to look Jim up whenever he was in the States (except when he was with his daughter) or wherever another archaeology conference was to take place somewhere in the world. And Jim did the same. More often, it was Jim sending him emails and pestering him on Skype. McCoy didn’t know why he continued to communicate with him, because seriously he could just _not_ reply to the emails and _not_ keep himself _signed in_ to Skype whenever he used his computer.

 

What did that say about him?

 

Maybe it was because it had been a long time since he had someone who he could call a friend. He had a handful of acquaintances, both in his medical and archaeological professions --- that much was true. And he’d had several friends back in Georgia and especially in Mississippi. He recalled the practical jokes they used to play on each other and on some smug doctors at the hospital where he was doing his residency. But he had long lost contact with them since his marriage, and when the divorce and custody battle came through, he’d just dropped everything and left North America, accepting the job offer from a (now deceased) former resident physician, who was once a victim several times of their practical jokes, in Wellington.

 

And he just stayed there, for almost eight years now. He could most definitely say that he was content with his life, despite missing his daughter too often.

 

As he reached the end of the road, McCoy finally saw the museum, standing tall and majestic against the sun just across from where he was standing. He glanced at his watch and noted that twenty minutes had passed since he left the hotel. The last paper of the plenary session should have already begun. That gave McCoy a good twenty minutes before the much anticipated open forums. Good, plenty of time then --- for a smoke and to search for Jim, who he’d last seen passed out and buried under two comforters.

 

 _  
Frederiks gate 2_ , it said on his map, was where he was supposed to enter. McCoy jogged as he crossed the street, mindful of the weight of his bag slung over one shoulder. He climbed the short steps up to the entrance, wheedling his way towards the parking lot at the back of the building. Several participants were already on the ground floor, mingling and enjoying themselves on the many artefacts displayed all around. McCoy had enough of those though, since he’d already toured the place after he’d confirmed his registration and gotten his ID and kit bag from a nice secretariat manning the table on that first day.

 

When he stepped into the parking lot, he joined the smokers by the nearest corner. McCoy deeply breathed his cigarette. Damn, that felt good. Maybe he could smoke one more before he looked for his friend. But halfway through his stick, Jim came out of the door, almost immediately spotting him.

 

“Bones!” Jim cried, pulling McCoy as soon as he grabbed his wrist. “We’ve gotta go! It’s about to start.”

 

McCoy firmly planted his feet on the ground, snatching his arm back. “Wait a damn minute, Jim! I’m not done yet, and besides,” he looked at his watch, “we have… about fifteen minutes before the open forum.”

 

Jim was shaking his head. “Change of plans. The last paper hasn’t started. We got lucky. C’mon!”

 

Grumbling, McCoy crushed the cigarette and hurriedly followed Jim into the museum. They climbed two steps at a time to reach the second floor, and once they’d arrived by the entrance of the Plenary Hall, Jim almost bumped into a woman who was just coming out of the double doors.

 

“Hey, small world, Uhura,” greeted Jim.

 

That tone absolutely meant trouble, not only for Jim, but for him too, since apparently, they were a package deal.

 

This Uhura woman glared at his friend and hissed, “I’ve got no time for your shit right now! Where the hell is the technician?”

 

Jim smirked.

 

 _  
Uh oh, not good._ “Problem, miss?” McCoy asked politely --- turning his southern charm on as he stepped in front of Jim, to prevent his friend from provoking the already frantic woman.

 

Uhura took two deep breaths, trying to calm herself. “Yeah, the overhead projector needs to be rebooted. _Again_. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a technician to hunt.” She then flipped her hair over her shoulders and walked away.

 

“Aw, Bones,” began Jim, “you’re such a spoilsport.”

 

“Plenary, about to start,” McCoy reminded, ignoring Jim’s taunt as he pushed the door. Which did not budge, _damnit!_

 

“Guess the door automatically locks, huh,” observed Jim, brows furrowed. “I can pick the lock.”

 

“Don’t.” McCoy gave the handles several good shakes but to no avail. “We’ve got to wait for her to get back.”

 

And of course, this was when Jim sent him a mischievous grin. “Well then, it’s a good thing opening doors is one of my specialties.”

 

McCoy threw his arms in exasperation. “I’m not going to pay half the cost if you break these damn doors, Jim.” This was not going to end well for both of them. _Again_. Goddamnit! Why were they friends again?

 

Jim slowly moved back from the door. McCoy could only step aside and cross his arms, because like everything with Kirk, much to his chagrin, adventures always, _always_ opened with a bang.

 

  


***

  


  
_Troy in Ice_   
  
  
_by[badass cherry blossoms](http://thetrowelsofawanderingsamurai.blogspot.com/)_   


  


_  
The Plenary Hall of the Museum of Cultural History, University of Oslo, can seat 100 people, but the massive lecture room was designed to hold about 150 people at maximum, granted that the last 50 or so are willing to stand at the sides. Only the biggest names in archaeology are granted the honor of holding their sessions at Plenary Hall.   
_   
_  
The hall is holding Professor Christopher Pike’s “Issues in Maritime Archaeology”, which is the most controversial session in the entire conference. Rumor has it, that Pike chose this year’s World Archaeological Congress to share his findings on his most recent excavation --- his most hyped to date. Even now, a few months later, the repercussions of his excavation are still felt by everyone. It’s his excavation that got WAC the Norwegian venue, fully sponsored by the Norwegian government (very generous, I tell ya).   
_

_  
Pike and his team spent an entire field season in Northern Norway. Part of the controversy is his investigation of the Stolpe manuscript that the scientific community regarded as the pigment of the highly active imagination of Hjalmar Evard Stolpe. In it, Stolpe translated and analyzed a never been seen manuscript (said to be written by Snorri Sturluson) on an unknown legend of a Vendel Age settlement that held a religious relic. Pike insisted that the manuscript was based on fact and went out to excavate in Hammerfest, Northern Norway, where he believed was the site of this settlement. He came back with his findings confirming the existence of a Vendel Age petty kingdom. The excavation was documented by both local and international media, including the National Geographic, as the “second Troy”.   
_

_  
Although Pike was victorious in his quest, he also came under the scrutiny of other media whores like Dr. Nero, who had developed a reputation for being the real-life Indiana Jones. Pike chose not to openly engage Nero in debate, but cleverly “stole” WAC. Dr. Nero slated Oxford for WAC, but careful maneuvering of the United Federation of Archaeologists voting members agreed to the last minute transfer of the conference to Norway.   
_

_  
Very sneaky there, Prof. Pike!   
_

_  
Cherry Blossoms ARE BADASS!   
_   


_  
[PUBLISH POST] [SAVE NOW] [PREVIEW]   
_   


 

Sulu finished typing his entry on his iPad. Say whatever you would about this place being covered in ice forever, but it had the best internet connection in the known world (well, maybe except in Japan, but hey, not the point). He’d been blogging his way through the conference since day one (even before that actually)!

 

“Save,” he muttered under his breath as he punched in the command. They were at a forced break from the string of talks and the Plenary Hall was buzzing with excited conversations. The earlier presentations kept lagging because the overhead projector persisted on dying about every thirty minutes on _this_ day, of all days. They were already on overtime and there were still had one presentation to go, the one by the infamous _Ice Prince_ \--- Dr. Spock Grayson, Pike’s second in command (so to speak).

 

And he was hungry too. It was already past lunch, yet he was still here, instead of being on the other venue, attending the session on the Neolithic landscapes and monuments in Northern Europe.

 

 _  
I say it’s been sabotaged_ , thought Sulu, amused and tired at the same time. The projector had never malfunctioned when it was used during the introductory plenary session on the first day of the event, so obviously, _someone_ did not want this session to carry on. He suddenly pitied the poor secretariats dealing with the delays.

 

Even so, of all the archaeological events Sulu had attended, this year’s WAC had to be the most awesome of them all. Oslo was cool, metaphorically and quite literally, especially the museums. The displays were fantastic! The best-preserved wooden Viking ships, which dated around ninth and tenth century at The Viking Ship Museum, were breathtaking. The same museum housed discoveries from Gokstad, Oseberg and Tune as well as other finds from Viking tombs around the Oslo Fjord, which included small boats, sledges, cart with exceptional ornamentation, implements, tools, harness, textiles and household utensils were also showcased brilliantly. He couldn’t wait for the tour to Oopland to check the Gardberg site out and see the Einang Stone itself! Very exciting, indeed.

 

Times like this made Sulu not regret getting into archaeology, despite his personal trifling funds. If one wanted to get rich, archaeology was definitely not the career to get into. Archaeology was about passion, deep-rooted nationalism and love for the past! It wasn’t like the ones portrayed by Indiana Jones, Lara Croft and Sydney Fox. There were no fist-fights, sword fights and bullet barters against treasure hunters and looters to save the world from secret societies, and myths coming true stuff; it’s tedious work, with the endless recording, days of lab analyses, years deciphering and interpreting, and most especially, the endless reports that had to be written every after a damn excavation.

 

“Do you know why you’re in archaeology?” asked one Dr. Kamminga, almost rhetorically years ago when he had come to his university for a seminar and Dr. Pawlik had cajoled him to lecture in their lithics analysis class. “It’s because there’s something wrong with you. All of you have a certain quirk. You won’t be a millionaire if you’re an archeologist, I tell you that. You’re all absolutely crazy just being in this discipline. Who’d want to do never-ending analyses on things that almost all people ignore? For instance, I study débitage, --- I literally study garbage.”

 

That had made him laugh. Nevertheless, the words rang true. On that day, he got several tips and tricks from a long-time archaeologist, and a kangaroo fibula.

 

His _otousan_ owned a number of pharmaceutical companies in Japan and his mama was a linguist and translator, who had an unhealthy obsession with orchids, koi ponds, weird-looking plants and landscaping. Earning an undergrad degree at nineteen, it was expected of him to take over the business as the sole heir, but Sulu had taken a different path, much to his father’s disappointment. His mother, on the other hand, had just gently consoled him, telling him that he could do whatever he wished to do. Which was how he and his father had arrived to a compromise: he was to finish this archaeology nonsense and then get an MBA. Well, he’d just gotten his doctorate degree, and had already been accepted for a post-doc study in the University of Arizona, which neither his parents knew, yet. He’d tell them, only after he’d enrolled though.

 

His iPad then gave a strange beep. It was saying something about not being able to save his entry.

 

“ _Nani?_ ” Sulu sat straighter, “I don’t believe this.” When his latest toy started playing _Paramour_ , Sulu went red with embarrassment.

 

He tapped a few more icons, before the device wailed _L’Arc~en~ciel’s Driver’s High_ in full volume. The people seated close to him, aisle seat at the fourth row, were giving him warning looks. He mustered an apologetic smile, keying a few commands on the pad. By miracle, it got worse: _Katy Perry’s I Kissed A Girl_ boomed without mercy.

 

“It’s a classic,” he shortly justified to anyone looking.

 

Sulu went back to tinkering his pad. _Kuso!_ As he shook the hell out of his gadget, he realized someone was standing by his seat. When he looked up, he was met with Grayson’s disapproving look.

 

“If you wouldn’t mind turning the music down,” he said levelly. “I would like to begin with my presentation.”

 

“I’m _trying_ ,” Sulu gritted out, as polite as he could.

 

“Have you tried the manual shut down?” inquired Grayson, his face devoid of expression.

 

Sulu grimaced, held the off button down and the device abruptly died.

 

“Thank you,” Grayson said, walking back to the podium.

 

Dejected, he stowed his toy in his backpack, carefully not meeting anyone’s eyes. But when he heard mocking sniggers somewhere at the back, he straightened his back and summoned his fiercest glare. _Kuso yaro!_ As soon as the microphone’s feedback resonated in the room, there was silence. Everyone’s attention was focused on Grayson.

 

“Apologies for the delay,” Grayson began, “Professor Pike and I would like to extend our thanks to the secretariats for their efficiency and immediate response to the technical issues we have _repeatedly_ been experiencing today. We are ready to begin the presentation on the Preliminary Analysis of Metal Artefacts recovered from Hammerfest, Northern Norway…”

 

As the screen behind Grayson flashed with the title, the audience straightened with expectant faces. This was the second time Grayson took the stage. He had to open the session since Pike had been called out to some emergency meeting with the rest of the Federation council and organizers of the conference earlier this morning. Nobody knew what was going on, really, but as long as nothing was burning, it was all fine.

 

Hmmm, that sounded like a good tweet.

 

Sulu pulled out his Blackberry from his jacket, taking notice of his seatmate scuffing reproachfully at him. He smirked; yes, his phone was the latest model released just two weeks ago.

 

His thumbs quickly fiddled with the keys, then he realized that Grayson’s voice slowly faded to almost mute. Grayson, of course, noticed it at once, and was now murderously glaring at the microphone. Ever so polite, he excused himself, as one of the secretariats went to the stage and took the microphone.

 

Sulu smirked and tweeted: _Karma --- what goes around, comes around. #buddhayouareGOD._ He then settled back into his seat and watched the show unfold: the secretariat resorted to hitting the side of the podium with the microphone as Grayson stood impassively --- patiently, on the platform. At a command from him, the poor secretariat skittered off the stage. She returned with another microphone. This one worked --- for now, at least. The audience remained silent, suppressing their mirth. Grayson, after all, had a reputation of being one scary son of a bitch that he could practically reduce anyone --- _anyone_ , to tears just with his sharp glare.

 

“Let us continue,” said Grayson, with his now familiar expressionless face. He opened his mouth, then,

 

 _  
Clatter-clatter-clatter. Clatter-clatter-clatter.   
_   


 

All heads turned towards the double doors at the back --- someone sure was impatient to get in.

 

“From this map,” Grayson resumed, pulling the audience’s attention back to the presentation, “it is evident that---”

 

The rattling returned, louder this time.

 

Well, whoever was behind those doors, he or she was not very happy. Sulu ignored the noise, as did Grayson, whose vacant face became even more devoid of life.

 

The noise stopped; everyone relaxed and waited for the speaker to continue.

 

“As I was saying,” said Grayson, his tone monotonous now with a tinge of venom, “trench locations were selected for---”

 

 _  
BANG!   
_

_  
Putang ina!_ What the hell?!

 

  


***

  


 

“ _Goddamnit, Jim!_ ”

 

Seriously, Bones was showing signs of ageing, such as impatience, a few lines, unnecessary worrying, sun damage, etc. In the first place, it wasn’t Jim’s fault that Uhura had locked the doors when she’d turned them away before she’d left for her hunt. Besides, kicking the door was entirely reasonable. They needed to get in, and now they could. Simple.

 

Jim stepped into the Plenary Hall and stopped just past the threshold. The projector showed a site map. _Damn_ , he was early. He was here for Pike’s discoveries, which, according to the schedule, was the last presentation of the session.

 

He moved his head to his left, then to his right, scanning. Gaila wasn’t kidding when she told him the room would be packed. From his estimation, there were more than a hundred and fifty people who came to attend, and all their eyes were on him, Jim Kirk. He smirked.

 

On the stage, the speaker stepped a little away from the podium, his head held high. Funny, he looked familiar. Squinting, Jim finally recognized the (apparently) current presenter, which made him chuckle. The speaker, on the other hand, seemed to be glaring at him, he wasn’t sure. Well, he could remedy that.

 

Without taking his eyes off the enigmatic man, Jim inclined his head as soon as he felt Bones standing behind him on the left. Seeing that there were still available seats on the front row, he tapped Bones on his stomach, nodding his head towards the seats. “Coming, Bones?”

 

His friend’s response was a snort.

 

Jim took that as a no. “Later then.” He ascended on the stairs, ignoring the heads that followed his every step. He recognized Sulu, nodding his head in acknowledgement, before passing him by. When he reached the front row, Jim took the seat in the middle. His eyes locked onto the speaker once again, waiting.

 

The room remained silent, anticipating a show of an entirely different nature. Jim returned his gaze to the speaker and playfully winked at him.

 

The stoic man blinked twice and hovered the microphone by his moistened lips.

 

“If there are not any _more interruptions_ ,” said him, moving back behind the podium, “I would like to continue.” The ‘I’m tired of repeating myself over and over’ could be heard from his tone; Jim didn’t doubt that the audience got the underlying message loud and clear.

 

Although the guy didn’t look at him again as he addressed the room, Jim noticed how his free hand would minutely brush the base of his jaw. He could surmise that that tick was recent.

 

The presentation dragged on, and Jim couldn’t help but compare it to the process of forming glass, where in its viscous liquid state it would slowly be drawn away from its container, squeezed between two rollers to form a sheet before it was to proceed to an annealing chamber. No, he was not bored, far from it actually. The speaker’s intonation had changed as he carried on with his presentation --- from an irritated monotonous manner at the start transforming to a thrilled timbre, albeit slightly repressed. As he’d thought: just like glass forming. Well, more like metal forming really, specifically the drawing process, since the core of the paper was the metal artefacts that were unearthed in the Hammerfest site.

 

As much as Jim wanted to praise the attention to detail the man was putting on his preliminary analysis of the metal artefacts, he frowned at the glaring, obvious misconception being illustrated. But he knew this beforehand, he’d read it in the Science article and the handful of articles from other reputable archaeometry journals. Surely, he was not the only one who noticed it. There had got to be about ten metallurgists, more than twenty prehistorians, and several more cultural anthropologists in this damn hall who had detected the mistake, internally bristling and waiting for the chance to contest the claims coming out of man’s mouth.

 

Patiently, Jim waited.

 

Almost an hour and about sixty slides later, finally, “And that concludes this presentation.” The room thundered with applause, most of the audience standing as they put their hands together. Jim remained seated though, but he was applauding too. It was an impressive presentation, it really was.

 

“It’s now time for the open forum,” said one of the secretariats, after he’d handed the speaker a bottle of water. Several of the audience started to get up for the microphone stands scattered around the room.

 

“I’ve got a question!” hollered someone, making the microphone’s feedback screech.

 

Out of everyone who raced for the stands, Scotty just _had_ to be the winner. Jim chuckled, mostly to himself. Open forums of plenary sessions tend to prioritize the _thunders_ \--- as they called veteran archaeologists, or the notorious experts of the different subjects. Yet with the apparent absence of the Federation council in the room, Jim guessed it was a first come-first serve kind of game now.

 

“Dr. Grayson, erm,” began Scotty shakily, openly ignoring many of their European colleagues’ headshakes and face palms, “what are your… erm, _feelings_?”

 

The archaeological community was stunned into silence. Well, except for one loud guffaw, which was immediately muffled but still could be heard, and when Jim searched for its source, he could see Sulu had ducked his head, a hand over his mouth.

 

An eyebrow slowly rose from Grayson. “Feelings,” he repeated flatly. “Please clarify your question, Mr. Scott.”

 

“Ya, feelings! Le’s talk ‘bout feelings for a moment,” Scotty spoke, gaining confidence as he went on. “We’ve not talked about feelings yet.”

 

“Again, please clarify,” groused Grayson, the slight tremble of his voice sounded like he was about to call an interpreter, or throw the microphone at Scotty’s head.

 

“Wha’ I mean is--- is, ye were the first people to discover this site. Ye’r all famous for it now.  What are yer personal feelings ‘bout the excavation? Hang on, do ye have feelings at all?”

 

That was it --- Jim stood to the rescue and joined Scotty by his side, throwing an arm around the Scot’s shoulders. “I think what Scotty here is trying to point out is your reaction towards your recent popularity with the world media.”

 

Grayson’s eyes narrowed. “That matter entirely belongs to another discourse and is not to be addressed in this session. I suggest Mr. Scott to keep his inquiries within the subjects discussed and presented earlier.”

 

Jim lightly nudged Scotty, and his friend, bless him, immediately acquiesced. They had been in too many drinking sprees to know what that unspoken gesture was. Scotty grinned and nodded, stepping the down and allowed him to take over. __

“Then I have one for you--- well, several actually, but let’s keep things simple.” Jim straightened his back. He could practically hear Bones’ silent, _You idiot man! Never ever give Jim a chance to make a grand stand! Never!_

 

“This is for Director Pike,” Jim began, keeping himself from spitting the man’s name, “but since he’s not here, I guess you’ll do.” He licked his lips, “As an archaeologist, we have an obligation to include honest interpretations of the data. In your analysis, you claim that you suspect that the amount of artifacts related to ship-building was an indication of an industry of sea vessel construction. Is that correct?”

 

“Yes,” shortly responded Grayson.

 

“This has a multitude of consequences that you did _not_ point out in your presentation. In effect, you are saying that the Viking era practically started in the supposed shipyards of Northern Norway. Evidence of extensive production of sea vessels suggests that the genesis of the sea faring affair in the Viking era is at _your_ site.”

 

Jim saw how Grayson minutely stiffened at the word ‘your’ that he’d deliberately said spitefully, and knew that the man got his underlying message. Site directors had been known to be possessive of sites they’d discovered, even restricting access to other researchers. Jim strongly believed that Pike was not above that.

 

“Your interpretations are logical and not impossible.”

 

“We all know that you’re an expert in metallurgy. No one in this conference would contest your skills. However! However, you’ve failed to correctly consider the functionality of the metal artifacts. This is a great oversight because you’d like to look at your artifacts again, your typology clearly indicates that many serve the same function, yeah?”

 

“The function of the highly corroded metal artefacts which forms a greater part of the data set is inconclusive.”

 

“And those metal artifacts that were identified? They were not standardized.”

 

“Standardization is not achieved in this era.”

 

“Has it occurred to you that it may not be even considered? Other sites from this area with the same dates, also Vendel Era, are _warriors_. They were not seafarers. In fact, it is accepted that they did not pursue seafaring. _In fact_ , apart from coastal contacts, the only reason cited for production of sea vessels is for burial rituals.”

 

“That has been considered. But cosmology is rarely _scientific_.”

 

“Your science has failed to appreciate the most important element of your study, which is culture. We’re archaeologist, Dr. Grayson, in the heart of all archaeological research is culture and society.”

 

A mild exasperated sigh graced Grayson’s lips. “What is your point, Mister… ?”

 

“My point is, because your research has overlooked an integral part of your study, your interpretation is _incomplete_. Your so-called shipyard is not producing sea vessels for war, Dr. Grayson. They’re making ships for _boat burials_.”

 

Several gasps then erupted, more than whispered muttering chats filling every corner and space of the room. As the noise level of the room rose to a fever pitch, Jim didn’t pay them much attention. Pike was hiding something, because honestly, he didn’t think Grayson would follow through the deception without Pike’s orders. The amount of effort to conceal something that _obvious_ took great skills, and Grayson --- this hot-handsome-crafty-beautiful man was absolutely _brilliant_. He didn’t just anticipate Jim from putting the matter in the spotlight.

 

In the midst of the frenzy, he and Grayson were locked in an intense staring contest. Jim leaned towards the microphone, eyes on him still, and announced, “And my name’s James Tiberius Kirk, Ph.D., University of New Mexico.”

 

Before Grayson could lay down his rebuttal, a high whistle came from the back. Jim and everyone else turned and at the entrance of the gaping double doors, there stood Professor Christopher Pike himself, behind him were the key members of the Federation Council. And _none_ of them looked happy.

 

Jim, with all his strengths, managed to stomp on the rage that suddenly erupted in his chest, curling his hands to fists as he glared directly at Pike.

 

  


***

  


 

The Head of the United Federation of Archaeologists, Dr. Barnett, accepted the microphone from Spock and turned to the gathered archaeologists from all over the world.

 

“Our sincerest apologies in interrupting Professor Pike’s most interesting session. But we have received a distress call from our sponsor, the Norwegian government, of a recent discovery that merits our full attention.”

 

Above Dr. Barnett, the previous presentation disappeared, replaced by a map of Northern Norway.

 

“As of eight this morning, the Norwegian government officially received reports from Edge Island, southeast of Svalbard. The island itself is uninhabited aside from the Wild Life Reserve outpost.” Maps and plates then swam in and out of the screen, including one very adorable polar bear. “The reservation staff discovered remains of wooden planks on the ice surface of the Thief Fjord. Areal and satellite photos of the finds have been acquired.”

 

There was a hint of excitement in Barnett’s voice. He turned to the screen and a satellite map of Edge Island came into focus, then the Thief Fjord and, lastly the edge of an ice shelf rimmed with black lines.

 

“This is the view from the surface. And this, from the sea, taken by a naval vessel.”

 

The black lines became larger until it became clear that they were a collection of highly preserved wood. But Barnett had saved the best photo for last. The next image showed the side of the short shelf. The prow of a wooden Vendel Era ship was sticking out of the ice --- a quarter of the ship already exposed. It was majestic in its preservation.

 

Barnett returned to the audience and silently surveyed them. The air in the Plenary Hall went pregnant with barely contained thrill. By now, the audience from the sides was making their way down the isle for a closer look. Barnett spotted Kirk from below him and pointed a finger.

 

“That, James Tiberius Kirk, Ph.D. from University of New Mexico, is your _boat burial_.”

 

  


***

  


_  
UNITED FEDERATION OF ARCHAEOLOGISTS: DIG AS ONE.   
_   


As soon as the announcement was over, several archaeologists were already rushing out to volunteer for the rescue archaeology at Edge Island. But Pike squeezed his way through the throngs of people, moving towards the exit as fast as he could, because he’d finally found his mentor’s son and he was not about to lose him.

 

God, James had looked exactly like his father: tall, proud, and a smartass to boot! Yes, exactly like George.

 

And Pike wanted him on his team. The council was gracious enough to allow him to handpick whomever he wanted for his group, and Kirk’s name just _had_ to be on that paper. From the anger the younger man had sent him earlier, Pike knew Kirk wouldn’t join up; he’d have to convince him.

 

The guilt of George’s death still draped his person every second of his life, even after twenty-five years had passed. He’d have to atone for what had happened all those years ago and by showing--- _involving_ Kirk in George’s legacy, perhaps he could forgive himself, even by a little.

 

As he rounded a corner where he last saw a glimpse of Kirk’s figure, his head still filled with things he wanted to say to be able to convince the man, Pike was suddenly shoved aside, his head hitting the wall as an incredibly strong grip bunched the front of his shirt and kept him on his feet.

 

“What do you want?” snarled Kirk, rage clear in those blue, blue eyes.

 

Pike swallowed the groan threatening to slip from his mouth --- he _did_ just hit his head and it was damn _painful_. It was a miracle his vision wasn’t swirling. Instead, he schooled himself and said, “Release me and I’ll tell you.” Another hard push that dig his back impossibly further against the wall, but Pike held his gaze, unperturbed.

 

Minutes passed, finally Kirk let go, but he didn’t step back. “Talk fast.”

 

“Sign up,” Pike said. “Enlist to my team and we’ll talk about the monograph you want to study.”

 

Kirk laughed, harsh and cold --- like a mad man who had nothing to lose. “What makes you think I still want to? The moment you shot down my research, I’ve been busy with other things. You’ve got nothing to offer me, Pike. Fuck. _Off_.”

 

He’d only got one card left and it was time to use it. “I have your father’s journal.” That seemed to pique Kirk’s interest. “And you can have it when the excavation is over.”

 

“I’ve got all his journals,” countered Kirk easily. “Including the ones from his last dig.”

 

“But not the very last one,” Pike revealed, his heart constricting within his chest. In fact, he also had all George’s journals --- just copies though, including all the man’s works --- which he had asked Winona ages ago, but only received photocopies of it. There was no need for Kirk to know that though. “Your father gave it to me the day before he died.” --- _before he and the others left him to fend on his own_ , was remained unsaid.

 

“You’re lying,” declared Kirk fervently. “You think I don’t know anything? Of what happened? Of what’s been going on? My father disappears in a shady dig and not even a year later, you got promoted to Heidelberg! Now, you’ve got Hammerfest and the Federation at your beck and call.”

 

He couldn’t afford to fail so Pike did the only way to convince his mentor’s son: he took out the notebook from the insides of his jacket. “See this? This was George’s. This has the entries of our last week of the excavation and it is the _only_ copy in existence. I’m not lying, Jim. You can have this after this rescue is over.”

 

Pike had Kirk hooked, he knew, because the initials on the black notebook was undeniably George’s and since Kirk had unrestricted access to his father’s personal belongings, there was no refuting that the younger man recognized them.

 

“You can have this,” repeated Pike. “And I’ll even give you access to the Stolpe monograph. What do you say?”

 

But Kirk smirked, “No, I don’t need the journal. I couldn’t care less about the monograph. I’m _done_ with archaeology.”

 

He grabbed Kirk’s arm before the other could walk away. “George wouldn’t have quit,” Pike stated confidently. “He would have continued to pursue this matter. He would have wanted _you_ to follow his footsteps, to embrace the legacy he left.”

 

“He’s _dead_.”

 

Pike wanted to violently shake him, but he restrained the urge. He had to remind himself that Kirk hadn’t known his father. “If you’ve really read his entries, then you _know_ there’s more of this than what meets the eye.” Slowly, he released his hold, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. “Your father saved more than twenty people that night. He stayed behind to protect the Gift of the Gods, I dare you to do better.”

 

The response he received was far from what he was expecting. Pike had given him two options --- a yes or a no, the former being the one he wanted to hear. He did not anticipate though that Jim would take the third option. The fist came out of nowhere and Pike was instantly sent down on the ground. He shook his head as the ringing in his ears continued and his vision swayed. Pushing himself up, sitting on the carpeted floor, Pike saw Kirk leaving, walking away in anger.

 

 _  
As first meeting goes, I’d say that was mixed signals. Great,_ he thought, snorting at himself as he licked his lips, tasting blood. That was one hell of a punch, which he guessed was between ‘maybe’ and ‘I don’t know’. Rubbing his jaw, Pike tilted his head back and said, “You’ve heard everything, I take.”

 

Out of the edge of the corner --- opposite from the direction Kirk had taken when he left, his most trusted apprentice appeared, impassive as ever, not even moving to his aid. Pike wasn’t expecting him to. “That was not wise, Professor.”

 

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Don’t remind me, Spock. But at least, I’ve got his attention. If he could resist the offers I’ve given him, then he’s more like his mother. George had always had to satisfy his curiosity, no matter how dangerous it was.”

 

Spock --- apathetic, scarily intelligent, efficient Spock, then asked, “What do you wish to do now?”

 

Brushing his slacks as he stood, Pike ordered, “We’ve got about thirty-six hours to prepare. Get me the list of volunteers by midnight.” He straightened his tie. “And oh, put Kirk’s name in our team.”

 

Spock raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“I know, I know,” he sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “But I’ve got a feeling he’s going to show up at the last minute.”

 

“Is this the same ‘feeling’ you have felt when you were extremely certain he would immediately abide by your request when you showed him the journal, sir?”

 

His student’s flat, deadpan tone made the question sounded like a statement. Well, knowing Spock, which he had for more than six years now, it most probably was.

 

Grinning widely, despite the pain of his jaw and split lip was giving him, Pike boldly answered, “Yes. Now, let’s go see Barnett and Komack.”

 

  


*****

  



	3. Chapter Two

 

They entered a deserted men’s WC, where the sunlight burst in from tall windows opposite the entrance, reflecting the light on all polished surfaces. Coming out from the dark storage room, the well-lit water closet seemed like a magical place that existed only in dreams and certain wardrobes. Then again, maybe it was the adrenalin talking.

 

He hauled his companion in by the shoulders; the smaller man gracelessly collapsed on the tiled floor, going greener by the second. Maneuvering the other’s middle, he deposited him in front of the loo.

 

Scott turned about, patiently waiting. Then, it came. It was soft gurgling at first, followed by a definite barf. He nodded.

 

“Let it out. Just let it all out,” Scott advised as he patted himself, searching for his emergency supply. To him, there had never been more opportune moment to break out the spare scotch he’d always kept in his pocket. Finally, pulling out it from the recesses of his worn leather jacket, he unscrewed the top and guzzled its content with a satisfied glee.

 

The barfing suddenly stopped; Scott turned back to his companion, squatting on the floor before offering his flask.

 

“Here,” he said gently, bringing the container closer. “It’ll make ya feel bett’r.”

 

White, thin, trembling fingers, belonging to a tear-stained face with matching red, puffy eyes and still green-tinged complexion reached for the flask. Carefully, Chekov brought the container to his mouth, sobbing after he’d drunk.

 

“Er’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Chekov chanted softly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I’m---” He was unable to continue as he threw his head into the toilet bowl once more.

 

“That’s a good lad --- into the bowl you go. Oh, is that bacon from breakfast? Did that come with sandwiches?”

 

At the mention of food, Chekov’s barfing intensified. Which made Scott frown --- after all, sandwiches were happy thoughts. Always and would be.

 

“That’s water now, lad. It’ll stop soon. It’s just---” he stopped, trying to find the appropriate word in his head. Trauma was what it was, but he couldn’t say that. Stress was not strong enough a word. Well, there was always pressure though. “It’s just the pressure, tha’s all.”

 

“Ye know, it’s not like you’ve never seen guns before. They’re in the movies and everything,” said Scott, handing the flask to Chekov who managed one big gulp before hugging the bowl again.

 

Reaching out a hand to pat the boy’s back, Scott pulled about a yard of paper towels out, then handed it to Chekov. The boy attempted to look appreciative before accepting the toilet paper and rubbing his face down, then courteously flushing the loo. Scott tried to make himself comfortable in the too small stall they shared.

 

Chekov looked dejected and scared, hugging his knees as he tried to hide his tear-streaked face behind his wrists.

 

“Eh, are ye--- erm, okay now?” asked Scott, as tenderly as he could. “It’s not that bad, consid’ring.” Chekov didn’t stir. Scott felt he was dangerously losing the boy. Not good. He sighed. This was why it was _not_ a good idea to accept students who were too young. The lad looked like he was all but fifteen!

 

“How old are you again, lad?”

 

Chekov managed a mumbled response.

 

“Sorry? What? Oh, seventeen,” deciphered Scotty. “Ah, too young! I told ‘em, didn’t I? I told ‘em, you dinna take in students that aren’t even legally allowed to drink! I told ‘em---”

 

“I drink!” Chekov cried suddenly, making Scotty jump. “I drink Vodka all the time! I’m Russian!”

 

“Eh, did ye now?”

 

“And I’m not too young! I’m seventeen!”

 

“Ah, ye mean to say, almost eighteen. Still too young, lad. Do yah know how old I am? Dinna you ask! I barely know myself. I don’t like doin’ the accounting of things. I’m an old man, laddie. But they don’t listen to me, those damn Ph.D. bastards. I told ‘em, this business is bad business. When ye go out of your offices and do real archaeology, ye get to know them things. It’s even worse than those tomb robber movie things.”

 

“Worse?” asked Chekov, eyes wide.

 

Scotty knew an audience when he saw one. “Aye, lad. Worse. Those movie things, they fight with crooks who want to get them treasures. The good guys are stupid enough to get in the way. In the real world, them crooks spend as much time killing the archaeologists as getting the treasure. Real villains don’t like witnesses.”

 

Chekov incredulously stared at him.

 

“Is the truth, lad,” said Scott somberly, stopping at that as he didn’t want to traumatize the boy further.

 

“That man with the gun,” began Chekov, “that was Dr. Nero --- _the_ Dr. Nero.”

 

Scott nodded, “Aye. Never dug with him. Never liked him in the first place.”

 

“What are we going to do?” Chekov exclaimed. “We have to tell _someone_ \--- _anyone!_ ”

 

“That we can’t do,” said Scott, almost vehemently. “Remember what Nero said? He wants this Gift of the Gods! Nay, we can’t say a word.”

 

“What’s the Gift of the Gods?” asked Chekov frowning, a tad curious.

 

“Pfft, hogwash,” Scott scoffed. “It’s most likely a fancy rock for all we know. It’s like Atlantis --- turned out to be a Roman villa! Some idiot burst the aqueduct and flooded the place.”

 

Chekov gawked at him like he’d grown tentacles. “Atlantis… the Tartessos excavation?”

 

“It’s not as fun as the telly took it to be,” Scott dismissed immediately. “Was always up to my knees with mud. And, on top of that, we got enthusiasts at every turn. The director had to fence up the site, with barbed wires no less! If the media wasn’t enough, the treasure hunters came in at full force. We got a good licking from ‘em, I tell ya.”

 

“What happened?”

 

It was something Scott never discussed with anyone, aside from few friends he kept. That excavation had scarred him for the rest of his life. He’d lost so many comrades-at-arms, whose lives were taken by the treasure hunters, who without mercy had gunned them down. Every night, without fail since the incident, Scott always offered a moment of silence for the fallen.

 

He grinned at the boy, hiding the grief he continued to carry. “Nothin’, lad. Ye best not worry about the past.” Scott stood and ruffled Chekov’s hair before going for the door. “Let’s get out of this dank old place. I’m wanting some sandwich.”

 

“Wait,” Chekov squeaked as he followed Scott down the hall. “What about Dr. Pike? He’s in danger!”

 

Scott thought things over. There wasn’t a single blip in the shovel bum network about Pike’s involvement with treasure hunters. The man was highly respected and was even admired by majority of them. Scott would have heard any buzz about him. To witness Pike making a deal with Nero about the Gift of the Gods, that was something he had not expected. Well, Nero had always been rumored to be a looter, but Pike was another story altogether.

 

The Gift of the Gods aside, there was that list written by a man called George Kirk. Unlike Pike, Kirk was infamous for disappearing in one of the shadiest excavations in the prehistory of the Federation. It was shortly after that the Federation had to amend the constitution to make sure every excavation was public. A good thing, that was. It stopped a lot of mysterious excavations --- looting really. No doubt that it saved a lot of lives. Hail, Jim’s da! Scott took another swig.

 

“Am sure it was just a misunderstanding,” said Scott finally. He grabbed Chekov by the shoulder. “You should just concentrate with school and not worry about it. Like that fellow over there, the one charging his laptop by the corner, doin’ some typin’. Tha’s dedication for ye.”

 

“Oh! That’s Badass Cherry Blossoms,” exclaimed Chekov excitedly, appearing to have forgotten the confrontation they had witnessed.

 

“Who? Cherry Blossoms? He looks like a lad,” said Scotty, screwing up his eyes to see better. Although they were a little far away, and moving slowly farther still, the Asian looked up from his computer and gave a short nod.

 

“Oh no. That is his screen name. For his blog. He is famous for it,” beamed Chekov.

 

As the boy chattered about the Asian’s blog, Scott tried not to think of the worse possible things that could happen to them in Edge Island.

 

***

 

The preparation for the rescue excavation in Edge Island was done, yet Spock was rechecking the materials the team needed for the next three weeks. And Spock was nothing but a perfectionist, bordering to obsessive-compulsive disorder. Although he would have preferred to have more days to prepare, Spock didn’t complain. He had several field experiences that involved last-minute legwork or spur-of-the-moment instances before. Well, that was what he got working under Christopher Pike.

 

The older man was impulsive, which Spock thought was someone with the man’s age should not possess. Perhaps in Pike’s youth that was understandable, but now the man was in his late forties, surely he’d had learned that his rash, devil-may-care attitude could get someone in an accident, or worse --- _killed_. That would not bode well for him _and_ for the people who worked under the older man. It would greatly impede someone’s advancement in his/her career. Thankfully, Pike was careful enough that he had a clean record in the archaeological community.

 

Unlike Dr. Hobus, whose reputation had been tarnished due to that accident in Rome two years, three months and four days prior.

 

Spock had made certain that none of that or anything resembling such incident would occur in Pike’s field excavations. As he had done for the last five years he’d known Pike.

 

When Spock was in his second-year of the MS-PhD program in archaeology in the University of Paris (Sorbonne), he had met Pike through a joint project by his university and Heidelberg University. As Spock specialized in medieval weaponry, it was not surprising that he eventually worked with Pike, whose specialty was the Medieval Archaeology of Europe --- specifically Scandinavian Archaeology. Knowing him by his reputation as a metallurgist and excellent working relationship, Pike had invited Spock in majority of his other projects after the first. And when Spock received his doctorate degree two years ago, he grabbed the opportunity Pike had offered him to have his post-doc studies in Heidelberg University.

 

He did not regret his decision to work for and with Pike. After all, the older man was an innovator --- mad at several occasions, yet accomplished and continuously delivered nonetheless.

 

With finality, Spock closed his laptop, placing it into his knapsack and gathered his duffel bag, which contained his other personal belongings. He had one-point-three hours before he had to get to an indefinite departure area. Apparently a government car would be picking him up at the Assembly Hall, which was only a ten-minute walk from the Museum of Cultural History. A rather unnecessary inconvenience, yet there was nothing he could do about it. Perhaps the remaining volunteers, who were scheduled to leave Oslo the next day, would not have such a bother. Surely the government would not want to reduce the number of volunteers with such nuisance.

 

When he passed an opening on the museum’s ground floor, Spock thought he saw a shadowed figure in the dimly lit exhibit room. His curiosity made his steps falter. Granted that the museum closed three hours later than their usual business time, and most of the delegates were either visiting several of the city’s attraction or having a grand time in bars and other establishments, the only people that should be present was the museum staff. Yet, here was someone who appeared to have no care for such frivolous affairs.

 

That, or the said person just happened to be lost.

 

He did not know what compelled him to gently drop his duffel bag and knapsack by the side of the entrance and pushed him within the room to investigate. Spock gladly blamed this impulse to his infinite curiosity --- a perfectly ordinary archaeologist behavior.

 

As he’d gotten closer to the immobile figure, Spock paused, finally recognizing who it was. He closed his eyes and gently released a soft sigh, already crushing the imminent ache forming in his head. Of all the citizens of Oslo, of all the tourists present in the city and of all the delegates of the postponed conference, of all _people_ , it just had to be _him_.

 

Justice was truly blind.

 

Then again, since his mentor had insisted and was not above kidnapping if necessary --- yes, Pike had actually, verbally said that to his face, Spock supposed he had to learn to adapt to the most probable output in all possible scenarios, or take the matters into his own hand.

 

He opted for the latter, lest he wanted to end his career, which he could _not_ afford to.

 

Resuming his steps, he deliberately made soft sounds to not startle the man. Though unexpectedly, the man appeared to not have heard his careful approach, which allowed Spock to scrutinize the man.

 

Kirk was standing by the miniature replica of Oseberg Viking ship incased in a glass, his back facing Spock. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans and a simple grayish shirt, though the yellow illumination the room provided made it difficult for Spock to determine its true color. Not that it mattered. His hair --- again due to the light --- was blonde, his posture could cause the man a lower back problem if not remedied in immediate future and ---

 

And he was consciously aware that he was stalling.

 

“What the fuck do you want?”

 

Spock would not admit it to himself, or to anyone else for that matter --- even under several forms of torture in a span of eternity, that he was startled. Faintly, he regained his composure, wondering if Kirk noticed, which seemed to be not the case.

 

“I was curious,” Spock found himself saying, which certainly surprised him given the hostility the other was radiating.

 

A short, loud snort came from Kirk, whose gaze remained at the display. “This is a crappy model.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I mean, look at the damn thing!” said Kirk disdainfully. “Both the prow and the stern are too narrow and that animal head post looks like the head of a snapping turtle. Granted that the debate is still on going, but whoever made this damn model is a shitty craftsman.”

 

Spock couldn’t help but moved closer to the display, standing beside the other, and examined the model. Kirk turned out to be correct. “Fascinating.” He straightened his back and looked at Kirk. “Were you silently criticizing this replica this whole time?”

 

Kirk rolled his eyes in a condescending manner. “Yeah, because that’s the only thing I can do here. Of course not!”

 

“Then, for what reason are you here?” asked Spock. He had had only two conversations with the man: the first was during the welcome party in Fanehallen at Arkushus Fortress, and second, during the plenary session, which seemed to be only hours ago. And from what Spock had gathered through those encounters, Kirk was the kind of person who preferred to be in the presence of his… friends and/or colleagues in some local pub getting themselves drunk until they passed out. “Surely you can find another place more worthy of your time.”

 

“Who died and made you the overlord of this place,” snapped Kirk, glaring at him. “I can do whatever the fuck I want! What the hell are you doing here anyway?”

 

Spock raised an elegant eyebrow, ignoring the outburst. “If you must know, I was reviewing and gathering the necessary equipment and materials for the excavation.”

 

With a sidelong glance, Kirk gave him a smirk as he folded his arms over his chest. “Following Pike like a lost, pathetic puppy, are you? You’re good, I’ve read some of your papers, and Pike’s a conceited, overly possessive fraud. Why the hell are you working for him?”

 

“You have… _read_ my published articles?” inquired Spock slowly in disbelief.

 

Kirk rolled his eyes again; distracting as those blue eyes shone in a strange manner against the light. “Yeah, I actually _read_. God knows nobody can survive archaeology without reading from Classical to Post post-processual, social theories and recent studies.”

 

“Indeed,” Spock agreed after a pause. “And Professor Pike is not --- as you put it --- a conceited, overly possessive fraud.”

 

“Being chivalrous again?” mocked Kirk. “Look, you obviously know nothing of Pike’s past. The man used lots of people as stepping-stones and manipulated his way to his current position and standing in the archaeological world. He’s a coward, someone who shouldn’t be trusted and who keeps significant research data! C’mon, you can’t be _that_ blind!

 

This was a problem. Obviously, Kirk would not work with Pike as the site director, and his mentor remained adamant not to remove Kirk’s name in the list. The word ‘kidnap’ echoed in his mind.

 

“To which research data do you refer?” Spock asked, genuinely curious. Perhaps there was a way to change the man’s mind. “If you are regarding the results of the Hammerfest excavation, the data we have gathered has not been----”

 

“The Stople monograph,” interrupted Kirk, tone challenging. “He’s got the _only_ copy of it, and he’s the only one who’s read it.”

 

“Incorrect,” Spock retorted, which clearly surprised Kirk. “I have read it, once. And due to my eidetic memory, I can recite the text to you, if you wish.”

 

Kirk’s eyes widened, evidently boggled by his confession. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

 

Spock couldn’t help but raised an eyebrow for the second time. “I assure you, I am not. Though I believe you would prefer to see the manuscript yourself, and from what I am aware of, Professor Pike has offered it to you, along with your father’s journal.”

 

A quick movement and Spock had his fingers wrapped around a wrist from a quite strong arm. Suddenly, he recalled the similar episode during the welcome party. This time though, instead of a playful gleam, Kirk’s eyes were blazing with anger.

 

“How the _fuck_ did you know that?” hissed Kirk, his trapped hand clenched to a fist. “What do you know about the Kelvin Expedition?”

 

Spock was unfazed; he had nothing to fear from a seemingly unstable man, evidently very prone to fits. Carefully, he smoothly rubbed his thumb on the inside of the man’s wrist. “Calm yourself, Dr. Kirk. To answer your first question, I was present in the midst of your confrontation with Professor Pike.” This somehow earned him a small frown and a reduced intensity in the man’s arm strength. “For your second inquiry, I know not the details of the expedition.”

 

“However…” He gently pulled Kirk towards him, leaning himself forward, ghosting his breath over the other’s ear.

 

Spock then slowly released his grasp, looking directly at Kirk’s eyes. Kirk appeared to be torn between confusion and incredulity. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to be in Arkushus Fortress.”

 

As he went towards the hall to resume his disrupted journey out of the museum, Spock paused just by the threshold between the room and the hall, turning his head to the side. “The enlistment is until midnight. You have four hours and thirty-six minutes. Good night, Dr. Kirk.”

 

No response came, but Spock was not expecting to hear one. His lips twitched to a small smile whilst he gathered his things and went on his way.

 

He’d just have to wait for the matter to unfold.

 

***

 

He threw the mobile’s charger into the duffel bag, closed it with a loud zip, not even bothering to muffle the noise. McCoy had been packing almost haphazardly for almost an hour now and despite the loud rackets he’d made, his companion remained buried underneath the thick comforter on the other bed. This just annoyed him, because really, he was _not_ Jim’s babysitter! He was a _doctor_ , damnit! _Twice_ over! Then again, they were both in this together, which wasn’t really a reason for him to do everything --- even packing Jim’s things.

 

The night before, Jim had literally dragged him to a bar not far from their hotel --- not that McCoy had to be coaxed for a drink or five, since he never really was one who watched his alcohol intake, but there was the fact that both he and Jim --- in the last minute --- had volunteered their sorry asses to the rescue archaeology in Edge Island. Thus, they both needed to be sober enough to wake early the next day.

 

And that next day was _today_.

 

McCoy sighed and without considering his friend’s condition, he summarily grabbed the covers. “Get the hell up, Jim!” An incoherent grumbling followed, which suspiciously sounded like a string of curses. McCoy tiredly ignored that. “I said, get up! We’re going to be late.”

 

Groggily, Jim rolled, pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep off his eyes and opening his mouth to a big yawn, saying something that McCoy’s brain automatically translated.

 

“Of course you don’t feel good!” cried McCoy, throwing clothes to Jim’s face. “I told you to watch your drink, but did you listen? Of course you didn’t! Now, get fucking changed. I called reception for a cab ten minutes ago!”

 

“Boooones,” whined Jim, pathetically, cradling his head in his hands. “Hmmurt.”

 

Rolling his eyes, McCoy took the glass of water and two aspirins he’d prepared earlier and handed them to Jim. If he were neither a doctor nor the other man’s friend, he would have left him to deal with the massive hangover on his own. Really.

 

“Stop complaining,” McCoy reproved gently, as he had already gotten over his irritation since Jim didn’t looked too good. Must avoid mentioning food, lest Jim threw up on him. “C’mon, get dressed, then you can sleep your hangover off on the way to the pick-up.”

 

At Jim’s grunted assent, McCoy readied their bags by the door just as the phone rang while Jim carefully removed his shirt and pulled on his jeans.

 

“Good morning, sir,” said the man on the other line. “The taxi you’ve asked will be here in five minutes. Please be at the reception desk to complete the check out, sir.”

 

“Yes, thank you,” McCoy shortly answered, before he remembered, “Please send someone up to get our luggage. Thanks.”

 

Placing the receiver down, he then looked over his friend, who was having a hard time putting on his shirt. _Christ_. “You’re such an infant.” McCoy took over, helping Jim into the shirt and hastily slipped on the jacket. Once dressed, Jim collapsed back onto the bed, curling into himself.

 

His brows furrowed. This was worrisome. Jim usually was able to bounce back to himself after a period of heavy drinking. There really must be something wrong with him. But since they had no time to go to a hospital, McCoy just decided to observe Jim’s progress to sobriety.

 

Minutes later, the doorbell rang. Time to go. Opening the door, McCoy instructed the hotel’s employee to take their luggage, handing him Jim’s backpack before slipping his own on his back. Gingerly, he pulled Jim on his feet, placing his friend’s arm over his shoulder while his free hand supported Jim on the waist. _Unbelievable!_ Jim felt like deadweight against him. Quickly scanning the room to check if he had forgotten anything, which he didn’t, McCoy securely positioned Jim and they exited their room.

 

He vaguely hoped the aspirins would kick in before they arrived at Edge Island because he was _not_ going to be puked over.

 

***

 

“Ready for take-off,” said the pilot over the comms.

 

In the helicopter cabin, it disappointed Chekov that he was the only one who looked excited, even remotely happy. Although Dr. Uhura smelled like flowers to his right and Mr. Scott smelled like whiskey, both were lost in thought staring out the window. Tinkering a bright yellow gadget in his hands, across Dr. Uhura, was Dr. Sulu. To his left was Dr. Kirk, whose head would sometimes land on Dr. Sulu’s shoulder, prompting the latter to gently push it back to Dr. McCoy.

 

“Oy, what’s with Jim?” asked Mr. Scott, frowning with concern.

 

Dr. McCoy painfully endeavored to scowl, his face contorting unnaturally. Going paler by the second, Chekov realized that Dr. McCoy was battling powerful personal demons, specifically, his fear of flying.

 

“Hangover,” Dr. McCoy said through clenched jaws. 

 

As the helicopter descended, making Chekov’s stomach do summersaults, Dr. McCoy tightened his hold on Dr. Kirk’s knee. In an attempt to make the four-hour trip more scenic, the route selected passed by Hammerfest, Pike’s most recent excavation, adding thirty more minutes to the journey. The pilot was also not enjoying the long route.   

 

Although Hammerfest had not yet opened for the season, it had been made into a pseudo-field museum. Some trenches were left open, under giant white tents. From above, the tents were marked with the logos of the Federation, the University of Oslo and Heidelberg University. One of the longer tents had Hammerfest in big bold black letters. It wasn’t until now, seeing the entire site, that Chekov realized how large the excavation was, with a total of five very large tents arranged in a grid.

 

The pilot didn’t waste anytime taking them back to a higher altitude, making Dr. McCoy acquire a green tint. Mr. Scott pulled out a plastic barf bag from his magical jacket that seemed to contain every thing anyone would ever need in an emergency. Dr. McCoy held up his left hand and flipped a finger at Mr. Scott, who ceremoniously dangled the barf bag in response.

 

After the long stretch of the Barents Sea, the pilot announced that they finally had a visual of Edge Island, which was to the south of the famous Svalbard Island. While Svalbard had enough resources to support several small towns, Edge Island was a barren piece of permafrost, ice and bits of rock floating on the sea. Except for polar bears, wolves, reindeers and other wildlife, plus the wild life reserve employees, nothing else was there. The pilot reiterated how austere the conditions were completely unlivable.

 

The pilot further expressed his annoyance at the inefficient route as he explained that they were required to pass through the four other sites, especially Narada. It had been utter chaos earlier that day when non-military choppers, delivering supplies and personnel, saturated the space in a previously no-fly-zone area. The Wild Life Reserve personnel had thrown away all decorum and broadcasted complaints through the free frequency on the radio. To demonstrate, the pilot let the team be serenaded by very angry Norwegian rumblings through the comms.

 

Under them, Edge Island rose out of the Barents Sea. From afar, it almost seemed as if it was bobbing up and down, struggling to keep its massive body afloat. It was surrounded by ice floes, like débitage around the core. A lone polar bear sat at the edge of the shelf, rubbing itself on the ice. It looked up at them as they passed, curious. Chekov shivered at the ten feet tall pile of muscles, claws and teeth. A polar bear was one of the most dangerous creatures in cold regions, and Chekov would not be fooled, unlike the rest of the team.

 

As they flew over the southern tip, the island was an endless sheet of white. Snow was not that bad, he mused. He had experienced succeeding winters of nothing but blizzards. The Russian winter was an equal opportunity slayer. It did not care what it destroyed, be it people or properties. The people showed their respect by learning how to cope. Winter was also feared because it was highly unpredictable. _Babushka_ had likened it to puberty: one day, it was calm and glittering; but the next day, it could be storming out of a perfectly logical conversation and expressing its hatred towards the world. But the team seemed to be transfixed with the winter wonderland of sparkling crystal snow and ice.

 

“Badass,” breathed Dr. Sulu.

 

“Everything looks so romantic,” gushed Dr. Uhura, expressing her awe.

 

“There’s nothing romantic about it,” said the Norwegian pilot, killing whatever fantasy she had of the place. “Weren’t you listening?! There’s nothing here but frostbite and killer bears.”

 

As they headed west, Chekov was no longer expecting anything but bears and snow. Out of the colorless landscape, long black bunkers formed a wall surrounding a cluster of smaller square tents. Unmarked, the team was unsure if they were part of the Archaeological Impact Assessment. Chekov exchanged looks with Scott, remembering Nero’s declaration back in the Museum storage room.

 

“This is the AIA Headquarters, Site Narada, headed by Nero,” informed the pilot and continued to the next sites.

 

All the five sites were located at the northern side of Thief Fjord, one of the two major fjords of Edge Island. They were spread out the bank of the fjord, extending nearly two kilometers with Narada closest to the river, while Enterprise was farthest. The team didn’t mind though if it was as well supplied as Narada. Their hopes were shattered when the camp of Site Farragut, the site closest to Narada, was nothing but a gray metal bunker and a square tent. The next two sites showed similar structures.

 

Dr. Sulu turned to Mr. Scott. “Have you seen the camp plans?” he asked shakily.

 

Mr. Scott shook his head, looking sick. Enterprise was the closest to Whale’s Point, which meant that it was the farthest from Narada, which held _all_ the supplies.

 

“Approaching NCC-1701,” announced the pilot. “That’s the old name of the bunker. Some scientist from the 80s built it.”

 

Chekov was in much shock as the rest. The call for volunteers promised them that it was a well-supplied excavation, with the military providing new and state-of-the-art bunkers for lodging. Dr. Barnett even boasted of intranet connection and running water. The team suspected that the pilot was deliberately trying to crush their morale. It appeared that not only would they be housed in an old bunker that was probably held together by bird droppings, but they were also going to live with in the barest conditions in the middle of nowhere.

 

A gray bunker sat in the middle of a field of snow, next to it was a square gray structure. From above, the bunker looked stark yet functional. The black painted NCC-1701 was barely readable on its roof. Dr. Uhura’s shoulders heaved, as if she was about to cry. Dr. Sulu’s face was a twisted, mixed of disapproval and a strong urge to abandon the excavation. Dr. McCoy and Mr. Scott wore varying degrees of outrage between them. Chekov was thankful that Dr. Kirk, who was known to be impulsive, was sound asleep. 

 

The chopper made a sharp 180-degree turn, squishing and scrambling everyone in the cabin. After the protests from the team died down, the pilot happily announced that they’d arrived and lowered the chopper down to a neon X on the snow.

 

A figure in a blue windbreaker was standing rigidly at a safe distance from the aircraft, and once they had disembarked, Chekov instantly recognized the man, even as half of the other’s face was hidden behind his goggles.

 

“Welcome to Site Enterprise,” greeted Dr. Grayson.

 

*****


	4. Chapter Three

  


  
As soon as the six of them hopped out of the helicopter and had gotten their bags, Spock ushered them into the old bunker, ready for their first team meeting. As Pike was not currently present, it had fallen into him to do the initial orientation. It was very much needed, because even though Spock was familiar with their works, research focus and specialization --- except Chekov since he was but a neophyte, it was their first time working all together as a team.

 

Spock faithfully wished there would not be too many problems between all of them. That would either slow the progress of the investigations, or they’d kill each other, which neither was productive for their cause.

 

They gathered at the central, common area, which Pike had affectionately referred to as the ‘bridge’. It was located directly at the far end of the entrance, within the inside of the bunker. It was composed of an adequately, refectory-modeled table, a viewing screen, a filing cabinet, sets of communications radio and a lounger chair made of leather, chrome, steel and aluminum bolted to the floor at the center of the area. Pike had the ‘villain’ chair specifically installed for him at one end of the table, while the remaining members of the team would just have to utilize padded folding chairs available.

 

Spock had allowed McCoy to deposit the ill-looking Kirk on the comfortable seat, as it appeared that the foldable chair wouldn’t be able to hold the man while in his ailing state. “What severe illness has he contracted?”

 

McCoy shrugged, “Hangover. He just needs to sleep it off.”

 

When all were seated, Spock cleared his throat. “Once again, good morning and welcome. As Professor Pike is currently delayed in Narada, I shall be overseeing this orientation. Before we begin, please refrain _yourselves_ …” he particularly looked at Sulu, who already had his mobile out,“…from trifling with your gadgets,” then he turned his warning eyes at Scott, who had his flask out, “and from consuming alcohol at this time, _and_ pay attention.”

 

“What’s Professor Pike still doing in Narada?” inquired Uhura frowning as she crossed her legs.

 

“Final verification on the matter of victuals,” said Spock dismissively, looking down at the clipboard in his hand. “Now then, aside from Mr. Chekov, you all have field experience. The ground rules are simple and I am certain you are aware of them: do not die, beware of flying trowels, do not touch someone else’s tools, and do _not_ die.” He passed copies of handouts to Chekov, who was seated nearest to where he was standing. “Those are the itinerary of our excavation for the next three weeks. If you have any questions, clarifications and suggestions, see either Professor Pike or myself.”

 

Spock continued, “Since there would be no hired local labor, each of you have been assigned a specific task. Dr. McCoy, you are to take care of our medical supplies; Mr. Chekov, the different recording forms to be brought to the site and all other forms of documentation; Dr. Uhura, as you are fluent in three dialects of Norsk, you are to report our progress to Narada every morning; Dr. Sulu, you are responsible for all the equipment, including the ones we need to bring to the site; and Mr. Scott, as the team’s quartermaster, you know your tasks.”

 

His gaze finally fell on Kirk, whose eyes remained close and appeared to be asleep. “As for Dr. Kirk, Professor Pike had stated that they still needed to talk regarding the matter. Questions?”

 

“Aye,” said Scott with urgency. “Will sandwiches be on hand?”

 

Spock did not sigh, “I believe there may be some in the supply boxes in the kitchen. Also, as the quartermaster, you need to acquire food supplies at Narada in the morning.”

 

“Got it,” acknowledged Scott, slouching back into his seat.

 

Chekov raised his hand. “What about our things?” he asked worriedly.

 

“The rest of the luggage should be delivered in one hour and four minutes.”

 

“Do we have rooming arrangements? Or do we get to decide who’d room with whom?” inquired Uhura cautiously, with a drop of warning.

 

Her query was perfectly understandable since she was the only female in the team. “The quarters are located to the right. Dr. Uhura, yours is the farthest from Prof. Pike’s office, first door as soon as you turned the corner; Dr. Sulu and Dr. McCoy, you will be rooming together next to---”

 

“Who the hell made that arrangement?” hissed McCoy, scowling at Spock. “This ain’t some boy scout’s jamboree! We should just pick whoever roommate we want!”

 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “We are indeed not in any form of jamboree, Dr. McCoy. However, Professor Pike was the one who decided for the arrangement. As he is our site director, his word is --- as commonly known amongst archaeologists --- is _law_.”

 

“ _Putek_ ,” muttered Sulu under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, I get it. Pike wants us all to get along, develop a peaceful, working relationship and build-up enough tolerance so we won’t kill each other sometime after the first week.”

 

Spock managed to pull himself together, because those were certainly not Pike’s reasoning --- none of what Sulu said were. In fact, his mentor had said that it would be fun to watch people with contrasting personalities to share a small space of a room. Pike sadistically even wanted to wager who would break first --- to which Spock had politely declined.

 

“It was along those lines, Dr. Sulu,” Spock finally answered. “As I was saying, you and Dr. McCoy will occupy the room next to Dr. Uhura’s; Mr. Chekov, you are with Dr. Kirk in the next one; and Mr. Scott, you will be sharing a room with me.”

 

“Are we going to have a bedtime?” Sulu remarked sarcastically. “Is smoking and drinking booze going to be banned?”

 

“Ye canna do that!” protested Scott, rather fervently.

 

From McCoy, Spock received a colorful string of curses and a, “that’s a human rights violation!”

 

Uhura merely said, “At least there won’t be any ruckus, I _do_ need beauty sleep.”

 

On the other hand, Chekov merely watched and Kirk remained blissfully oblivious. Spock kept his mouth shut, letting their frustrations flow out. He had learned years ago that it was better for members of a team to let anxieties gradually ooze out from one’s system from time to time, because it was either that or force the troublemakers to leave the field. It was the reason why many archaeologists succumb to vices such as chain-smoking and drinking.

 

It was understandable --- an expected behavior so to speak.

 

When he finally escaped from his thoughts, Spock realized that it was silent and five pairs of eyes were staring at him, waiting for his response. With a raised eyebrow, Spock simply answered, “Objections should directly be addressed to Prof. Pike. He shall join us tonight. Any more questions?”

 

There were grunts and mumbles, but there was no further inquiry so Spock said, “For the mean time, you may retire to your assigned rooms, explore the bunker --- there is an outhouse through the door by the kitchen, or do whatever else you wish.” Spock thought for a moment and quickly added, “As long as our shelter remained free from fire and any form of catastrophe.”

 

Spock released them without further ado, as he clicked his pen and checked the small box in his list. McCoy was trying to wake Kirk by tapping the man’s cheek, but Kirk just groaned, eyes squeezing tighter in refusal. The medical doctor rolled his eyes and directed Sulu to assist him into depositing Kirk into his assigned room. Chekov followed the three men as they struggled towards their quarters.

 

Scott had gone towards the kitchen, for the sandwiches Spock supposed. He let him be. He might not have worked directly with the Scotsman before, but he was one of the most sought after contract archaeologist. Scott was extraordinarily resourceful, could create miracles out of thin air, and no matter how hard the man drank in the night, he never showed signs of a hangover the next day --- according to Prof. Pike anyway. Montgomery Scott was also known for his absolute loyalty.

 

Spock intended to retire to _his_ Artefact Management Room, looking forward to organizing the room to fit the expected needs of the excavation. But Uhura’s excessively high-pitched voice came from behind.

 

“SpooOoock,” said Uhura, adding unnecessary syllables to his name. “The radios are all disconnected. I’m afraid my expertise doesn’t include assembling communications equipment.”

 

This was a blatant lie. Spock had seen her work wonders for the Plenary Hall session equipment only a few days before, when all the other secretariats could only manage to call for the technician. Nonetheless, he said, “Dr. Sulu may assist you. I believe he intends to wire all the equipment.”

 

Uhura seemed lost but rallied in a span of a heartbeat. “He’s busy. Maybe, you could assist me instead. Please?” she looked up at him through her lashes, smiling coyly.

 

“Here is Dr. Sulu now,” said Spock as Sulu entered the bridge. “Dr. Sulu, would you please assist Dr. Uhura with the radio? Thank you.” Turning around, he quickly made his way to the Artefact room.

 

Spock had just sat down with his clipboard, when Scott’s yelling reached him. Apparently, the supply boxes only contained nutrition bars, fake sandwiches (apparently) and nothing else in terms of food supplies. It worried Spock but decided to leave the matter with Scott. He set the paper cutter on the square table in front of him and started cutting the accession slips into smaller pieces. The sound of the blade cutting through the mid-grade bond paper was strangely relaxing.

 

The Artefact Management Room was in between Dr. McCoy’s medical bay and the equipment room. At the end of the hall that the three rooms shared was the kitchen, where Chekov was noisily tinkering with the plumbing. According to Scott’s continuous yelling, the pipes were in good condition but the faucet was not. The quartermaster’s complaints ended with Dr. McCoy’s howl, announcing the lack of liquor in the camp. It was followed by the loud clanging of the kitchen doors and the relocation of the roaring outside, which was so loud that Spock could audibly hear them.

 

It seemed that Scott and McCoy were attempting to commandeer the snowmobile. Spock was not unnerved because the keys are safely in his person, but he let out a smirk in spite of himself. However, a shriek from Sulu from the bridge caused him to misalign the paper, making the cut less perfect. Amidst the commotion in the bridge was Uhura’s voice, trying to placate Sulu, who had injured his finger on a nail. It did not last long as Sulu ran through the hall, followed by an also shrieking Uhura. Sulu went directly outside while Uhura lingered in the kitchen with Chekov. Eventually, Uhura and Chekov had also joined the snowmobile would-be pirates. Finally, the bunker was at peace.

 

Again, this was too much to hope for as Kirk groggily stumbled into the Artefact Room.

 

“Aspirin…” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut, leaning on the threshold.

 

Without arguing, Spock retrieved his personal medical supplies from one of the shelves and produced two tablets of Ibuprofen. Kirk accepted and swallowed them silently, before he fell forward, into Spock. To support him, Spock wound an arm around his middle and hooked Kirk’s arm over his shoulder. Spock carefully led Kirk back to the man’s quarters.

 

Once Kirk was again in bed, Spock took his leave.

 

“Bandage,” Kirk grumbled into the pillow.

 

Spock frowned, puzzled. It was then that he noticed a paper cut on his finger. Saying his thanks, he returned to the sanctuary of his Artefact Room and cleaned his small wound, covering it with an adhesive bandage. He had to admit that Pike was correct in his assessment that Kirk was hyper-observant, a valuable trait that would aid their research. However, it was also a fact that Kirk is unpredictable, a firebrand and extremely unreliable. James T. Kirk was, in Spock’s unwavering opinion, unfit for Heidelberg University as a member of the Department of Archaeology.

 

“Ah,” Spock’s injured hand recoiled as the bandage grazed his jaw. It was a mannerism he had developed during the start of the conference.

 

***

 

Christopher Pike arrived closed to seven in the evening when the team was having sandwiches and tea for dinner, and immediately called for them to gather in the bridge. They had wanted to protest, but his tone made no room for argument. Even before most of them had started on their sandwiches, and Kirk nearly choking on his dinner, the team rushed behind Pike.  

 

When they arrived at the bridge, Pike was already seated on his chair, one leg crossed over the other, wearing his annoyance on his sleeve.

 

“Take a seat,” ordered Pike.

 

Each of them took a folding chair and arranged themselves in a semi-circle formation in front of their site director. Spock, on the other hand, stood behind Pike like a guard --- with his back straight and an at-ease stance.

 

Since the Federation council had granted him to handpick whomever he had wanted for his team, Pike had carefully chosen the seven of them. There was no question regarding Spock, who was being groomed to lead an excavation --- this was just another exercise to test his skills. Uhura and Sulu were chosen for their specialization on symbolism, burial practices and boat burial analysis. Additionally, Uhura was a polyglot and Sulu had the reputation of being good in tweaking a number of archaeological equipment. Spock had suggested McCoy whose specialization was off by a long shot. But it paid to have a medical doctor on site. As for their quartermaster, Scott was legendary. The young Russian was chosen as a favor to a long-time colleague, who had assured him that the boy would be an asset to him.

 

“I’m sure there is no need for introductions,” began Pike, a small smirk on his lips, “I believe Spock here gave you our itinerary for the next three weeks, but that’s partly flexible, depending on how fast the excavation goes.” He looked around the bridge. “I see that you’ve already set things up.”

 

“Pike, sir,” said Scott, leaning forward. “We dinna have food supplies.”

 

Pike nodded in ascension, bordering on respect. “Take one snowmobile to Narada tomorrow morning,” answered Pike. “Get enough to last for at least three days. There’s no need for a supply run everyday. Don’t forget to refuel, Mr. Scott.”

 

“Aye, sir,” said Scott, satisfied.

 

“Spock,” said Pike turning slightly to Spock. “Take McCoy, Chekov, and Uhura. Get us a DP and set up the trenches. We’re doing the spit system.” McCoy’ eyes widened and had began to uncurl himself like a snake bent on attack. Scott had opened his mouth, but before the two could even begin, Pike set his foot down. “That’s non-negotiable,” he said with finality.

 

“Hang on a minute,” McCoy started. Pike stared back squarely, letting it be known that it is _his_ excavation. McCoy seemed to have gotten the message. “I need more medical supplies,” McCoy ended up saying. “If everyone is as clumsy as Sulu and has as many allergies as Jim, then what we’ve got is not enough.”

 

“Hey!” Sulu exclaimed. “In the field, cuts don’t heal. They just get bigger and bigger. Infection, man! Then, you get med evac.”

 

“You’re exaggerating,” remarked McCoy.

 

Pike held one palm up, “Alright, that’s enough. Give Scott here your list, McCoy. I’m sure Narada has most of what you’ll need.” He then returned to the topic at hand. “Sulu and Jim, you two are with me. We’re going to survey about three miles to the north. Sulu, you’re in charge of equipment.”

 

As Pike stood, he briefly added, “That’s all for tonight, team Enterprise. Get some rest. We start at eight in the morning. Good night.”

 

As his team dispersed, he turned to Spock. “You’ve put the documents on my desk?”

 

“Yes, sir,” replied Spock. “Including the translated documents I have photocopied from the museum and the ones I have asked from our department.”

 

“Good, very good. What about the---”

 

“We need to talk.”

 

Pike turned and saw Kirk’s determined look. Well, he guessed it was unavoidable. Nodding at Spock, he gestured for Kirk to follow him towards his office, to which the younger man did. As he made himself comfortable in his chair, Pike motioned him to sit, but Kirk stubbornly stood from across his desk, feet planted firmly on the floor.

 

“I’m glad you’ve accepted my offer,” he said casually. “George would have been proud.”

 

Kirk scoffed, “Don’t say his name. Let’s get things clear: I’m here for as long as you keep your end of the deal --- my father’s journal, unrestricted access to the Stolpe monograph and the location of the Kelvin site.”

 

“Wait, I never said anything about Kelvin,” said Pike with furrowed brows, shocked and confused. Where the hell did that last bit come from? “I don’t even know where the expedition---”

 

Kirk slammed a fist on the desk. “Don’t lie to me! You were there, you were part of it.”

 

“I’m not lying,” confessed Pike, wondering where Kirk had gotten that information. The journals had been carefully written in codes. As far as he had deciphered, George hadn’t included the coordinates. It was a closely guarded secret known only to two persons. It dawned on Pike that Kirk simply had no idea how dubious the situation had been. Even now, Pike could not fathom why George had willingly agreed to it.

 

George Kirk’s reputation was built on fantastic discoveries from highly questionable sources and untraceable funding. It was an inside joke that George Kirk was the inspiration for Indiana Jones. Even his death had been surrounded by mystery. When the team had returned without Kirk, they underwent massive reviews from the Federation and had even come close to losing their license. More than twenty years later, it still hung on his person like a death shroud.

 

Pike started again, leaning forward and lacing his fingers at top of the desk. “Jim, you have to understand. It was a shifty excavation, even for George.” He paused for a sigh, then, “Your father was considered a sort of demi-god of archaeology, and everyone wanted a piece of him. But that came at a great price: he was rumored to be attached to treasure hunters, private collectors and the black market. As time went by, the archaeological world demanded more of him and his projects that they become shadier.”

 

“My father was _not_ a treasure hunter,” said Kirk, glaring still.

 

“Don’t get me wrong,” defended Pike, “I’m not implying or saying that he was. But the Kelvin Expedition only heightened those rumors. Your father told us that the expedition would make our careers, and that the Gift of the Gods would be the crown jewel of archaeology. Believing him, we dropped our research and our teaching positions for that expedition.” He took a deep breath, “It was a disaster from the start. We were transported to the site like a fucking herd of cattle. We were blindfolded all the way to the site, and before we knew it, we were in a barren wasteland of ice. Nobody could tell us where we were. Hell, we couldn’t even take personal field notes. They took our passports, which they didn’t have to since there was no way out of there.”

 

“The only time I saw George was at night in camp,” he continued. “He was excavating an auxiliary trench a kilometer away from the main site. When the storm came, George had the team evacuated, but he refused to leave the site. I--- we begged him to come with us… And that was the last time I saw your father.”

 

Pike looked at Kirk straight in the eyes. “George made sure that his team would get out alive. He made sure that when we were questioned, we wouldn’t be able to implicate ourselves with what really happened. Your father made the right decisions, under the circumstances. We were dealing with powerful and dangerous entities, Jim. They cared for nothing but the treasure.”

 

Kirk remained silent. So Pike went on, “We never found the Gift of the Gods. And I have been searching for the site of the Kelvin Expedition all these years.”

 

“Why?” Kirk asked, suddenly.

 

It was Pike’s turn to be speechless. “Your father has given me so much. It is time to honor him by continuing his work, with his son.”

 

Kirk was obviously taken back by Pike’s sincerity. 

 

“I have been deciphering your father’s journal all these years, taking the accounts in the Stolpe monograph. It’s tasking, since George had always been too fond of his codes. I was successful enough to locate Hammerfest. In the least, it’s proven the existence of the Gift of the Gods. It also told us that it might be in a boat burial.”

 

“And you think it came here? In Edge Island?”

 

“Yes, there’s compelling evidence that the boat burial with the Gift of the Gods is in this island,” nodded Pike. “My real focus is just that. It’s why I chose this specific location, away from other eyes and ears. That’s what we’re going to try to find in tomorrow’s survey. Once the expedition has been located, I’ll turn over the journal and the monograph to you. They’ll be invaluable resources for the report.”

 

There was the unspoken part of the agreement, still very much unspoken. Pike was personally handling all the information about the expedition, while Kirk was on a need to know basis. But Pike had implied Kirk’s involvement in the research and publication.

 

Seconds passed before Kirk finally said, “Fine. I’ll help you find it. But the moment I find out you bailed on our deal, I’m out of here. Clear?”

 

Pike grinned. “Crystal.” Kirk turned to leave, but when he was just about out of the door, he called, “Ah, get Spock for me, will you?”

 

The answer he got was a shattering slam of the metal door.

 

Slowly, he released a sigh of exasperation and relief, pinching the bridge of his nose and tightly closing his eyes as he leaned back on his seat. Damn it. He had not foreseen the series of events that had suddenly dropped on his lap. It was as though the universe was conspiring against him. Maybe this was an accumulation of curses he had gathered over the years of excavating burial and ritual sites. Maybe he was cursed by the number of artifacts his project had unearthed.

 

As the Vendel people had believed, the Gift of the Gods seemed to be cursed as well.

 

Pike knew he had gotten lucky with Hammerfest. Lady Luck had also blessed him when the Federation council had diverted their attention from Nero towards him, which had been in his favor. Not that he had wished for the occurrence of the most devastating accident in the history of archaeology at Romulus site in Italy. It was tragic --- such cause of deaths was and always would be tragic.

 

What used to be a heated rivalry between Nero and himself became a full-out war. And Nero just had to win against him, no matter what it took. Of course, he was willing to fight, but his personal involvement with the current subject was starting to tear him apart.

 

He had decided to play this game of death with subtlety, manipulation and webs of lies. Goodness, karma was truly not a mere product of overactive imagination --- it truly existed, and he was in the midst of the cycle. When he was to be reborn, he was going to be some sort of insect with a life span of a day.

 

 _ If I were to blame someone _ , he mused, _that’s going to be that old man_. But since he didn’t know whether the man had survived the Kelvin excavation, he had no one to blame but himself.

 

That was where it all began.

 

He was young, feeling adventurous and was enticed by the mystic world of archaeology. Then of course, he met one Dr. George Kirk. That man was brilliant! He had fought tooth and nail to become one of George’s advisees, and he was fortunate enough to be approved. Although Morgan had always been George’s Number One apprentice, it didn’t matter then since everyone in the department knew she was the favorite, and she actually had gained the ‘position’ through hard work and impressive research papers.

 

Then, George suddenly decided to accept a mysterious old man’s expedition --- a descendant of the infamous _Stolpe_ himself, which they later found out during the Kelvin excavation. As years passed, members of the said team died --- from accidents, diseases and such. Some though had just dropped from the face of the Earth. Even Number One was gone. He had tried locating them, tried to see if there was any pattern, but he was unsuccessful.

 

But apparently, as he had just very recently discovered, not Nero.

 

It was after the Federation council had disrupted his plenary session, after he had spoken with Jim, and after he and Spock had seen Barnett and Komack, when Nero had hauled him into one of the museum’s storage rooms and demanded he give him the Gift of the Gods. These were different times. George Kirk’s antics were no longer allowed. Nero had expertly hid his involvement in shady, underground business.

 

At gunpoint, Pike had held his ground and calmly told Nero that he didn’t have it, nor was he searching for it. But the other man had dangled a piece of paper --- a list in a too familiar hand script.

 

“You recognize it,” Nero had stated, dangling it in front of him.

 

“I don’t,” he had carefully denied, heart drumming within his chest.

 

Nero narrowed his eyes in warning, releasing the safety of the gun. “Don’t lie to me, Chris. I know you do. This is the list of the names of every single person involved in the Kelvin Expedition.”

 

“Where did you get that?” he asked as he tried to keep his breath steady and calm. There was no mistake --- it was George’s handwriting!

 

“Oh, this?” said Nero, playfully. “From someone you know, someone you were very familiar with. Sadly, you can’t see her anymore.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

Nero shrugged, heartless and non-caring. “I plucked it from her cold, dead fingers myself.” He pointed the muzzle on Pike’s head once more. “Now, I’ll ask you again: the Kelvin, where is it?”

 

He held his ground. “I don’t know.”

 

“But you have an idea where.”

 

“Yes,” he nodded, making sure he had sounded certain.

 

Nero had maniacally smiled, showing his teeth like a predator. “Then let’s barter. You give me the artefact and you can have this.” He dangled the paper to Pike’s face for emphasis.

 

Pike hid a nervous gulp, “How long do I have?”

 

“Three weeks.”

 

And now, as Pike sat in his office, he realized that he should not have made that deal. He had given Nero the upper hand! It might have just been a piece of old paper containing the names of his friends and colleagues, but it also had the addresses and last known location of each person. Adamant as he was, Pike wanted to finish what had George started, with the last Kirk legacy.

 

This led him to another problem he was facing: Jim. The younger man was truly, really angry with him. How in the world he could make him understand that they had the same goal? Jim wouldn’t listen, was as stubborn as his mother! Pike needed Jim to trust him.

 

A sudden knock from his door jolted him from his seat. Pike properly sat and allowed whoever it was behind the door to enter.

 

Spock’s head appeared through the opening. “I see you are done speaking with Dr. Kirk,” he stated as he gently closed the door and walked further into the room, standing where Jim was earlier.

 

“Spock,” Pike groaned, close to a whine. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Very well,” said Spock neutrally. “Shall we continue from where we left off, Professor?”

 

Despite the ache hammering in his head, Pike nodded.

 

***

 

“I’ll be returning to Narada tomorrow night.”

 

Spock’s head snapped up so fast that he felt his cervical bones cracked. He inwardly winced at the sudden pain, but ignored the feeling to study his mentor’s face. “For what reason, Professor?”

 

“Bureaucratic matters, Spock,” answered Pike lightly. “Just some old, bureaucratic matters.”

 

“I see,” Spock remarked, unconvinced. But if Pike didn’t want to speak about it, then he wouldn’t push. The man appeared to be fatigued, weary and fragile at this moment. “I suggest you rest, Professor. You will need all your energy for the survey tomorrow.”

 

Pike gave him a small grin, “Are you saying I’m old, Spock?”

 

“Well,” began Spock, “you are certainly no longer in your youthful condition. From what I have gathered from your stories, your family has a history of heart ailment. Best be safer than sorry.”

 

With a laugh, Pike waved a dismissive hand. “Thanks for reminding me. Now, off you go.”

 

“Good night, Professor.”

 

***

 

Gently, Spock closed the door of Pike’s office, at one end of the bunker’s single hallway. He silently and purposely slipped down the hall, like a night guard on patrol, guarding his fortress from sentinels out to crush the hopes and dreams within...

 

… Chekov snuggled deeper into his layers of blanket. He lay awake in the quarters he shared with Dr. Kirk. He wished his roommate would return so he could tell someone about the excitement that swelled in him. He hadn’t felt this since he’d done his thesis experiment on the Uncertainty Principle! Although he had already learned so much, there was still so much he needed to know. Tomorrow --- he yawned, his lids dropping --- tomorrow was just the beginning…

 

… of the most competitive field season he’d ever been involved in. He needed his A-game more than ever. Sulu softly snored in his sleep, spread eagled on his bed like a starfish. He was no Energizer bunny no matter what othesr thought. When his adrenalin crashed at night, there was no stopping it. He needed to recharge for the survey anyway. Tomorrow was going to be a long day of testosterone packed action…

 

… stars. That was what McCoy needed to make him feel like it was actually time for bed. That was an unexpected addition to his list of needs. On the top of the said list was booze, which the shitty, old bunker was desperately lacking. After a long internal battle, McCoy gave up. There was nothing else to do but sleep off his annoyance. Tomorrow, though, he swore that he was going to have bourbon even if hell…

 

… froze over, she was not modifying her skin care routine. Uhura had her priorities straight. First, there were wrinkles. She gently patted the serum on areas of the face where wrinkles tend to manifest. Next, she needed hydrate her skin. A girl needed to maintain the flawlessness of her skin. After going through several skin care products, she was finally ready for bed. If only someone’s snoring didn’t pass through the thin wall that separated their quarters. She laid herself on the bed, pulled on her eye mask to block out the midnight sun and filled her head with happy thoughts. Tomorrow was going to be a great…

 

… day, his haggis! Although he had rectified the lack of sandwiches and booze through his own emergency supplies, Scott’s heart was filled with disappointment and worry. He doubted that Narada was just going to hand over supplies. He wasn’t even sure if they even had supplies in the first place! He suspected that the unmarked crates that were visible from their chopper run contained weapons instead. He reviewed his pilfering skills, as he idly rocked the chair with him. Stealth and absolute cleverness was necessary for survival. He nodded at the kitchen wall, this was one _those_ excavations. Montgomery Scott was their only hope against the dastardly evil.

 

“Where ye goin’, Spock?” he asked when the man came into the kitchen.

 

Instead of a proper answer, Spock just nodded and said, “Good night, Mr. Scott.” He leisurely made his way towards the door, and once he was out of the bunker, he was greeted by the sight of Kirk, leaning his back against the wall; his unseeing gaze was on the snow-covered ground.

 

Spock inwardly shrugged and joined Kirk by an arm’s distance against the wall. He fished out his pack from his pocket, taking one cigarette and lighting it up. After a long drag, he silently stretched out his hand and offered Kirk one. Jim snorted, but took one from the pack and accepted Spock’s offer of light.

 

A comfortable silence had fallen between them and together, they basked themselves in the light of the unsetting sun.

 

*****


	5. Chapter Four

  


Chekov secured the field gear on the sled. Buckets, picks, measuring rods, stadia, the total station case, crates, stakes, different types of nylon strings, measuring tapes, neon sticky tapes, and other things Chekov didn’t recognize.

 

“Give it a test run, McCoy,” commanded Dr. Uhura.

 

“You’re just going to stand there, aren’t you?” asked Dr. McCoy sarcastically.

 

“Stop whining and pull,” retorted Dr. Uhura.

 

“I will help, Dr. McCoy,” offered Chekov, beaming. It was their field day of excavation, and for Chekov it was the first day of everything!

 

“Never mind, you. You’re too tiny for this,” said Dr. McCoy, starting to pull the sled through the snow. “You gotta get,” --- pull,  “muscles.” --- pull, “And get stronger,” Dr. McCoy advised as Dr. Uhura stood at the side with her hands crossed.

 

Dr. McCoy stopped to remove his blue windbreaker, swearing. The older man seemed to never run out of swear words, like Mr. Scott. “Fuck this!” He threw his coat at Chekov’s face before he began to pull again.

 

“Where’s the snowmobile when you need it?” he asked in exasperation.

 

“It’s with Mr. Scott for the supply run,” answered Chekov; Dr. Uhura shot him a look.

 

“I _know_ , dammit!” Dr. McCoy hollered at the snow. “Where’s that in-bred?”

 

Chekov looked puzzled as Dr. Uhura shook her head.

 

“Oh, there they are,” Chekov said, looking back at the bunker’s entrance. The away team, Dr. Kirk and Sulu, made their way towards them, while Dr. Grayson received instructions from Director Pike.

 

Dr. Kirk --- or Jim, as the other man had told to call him earlier, stopped, transfixed at Dr. McCoy’s attempts at transporting the field gear; a grin split on his face.

 

Of course Dr. McCoy saw that. “Damnit, Jim! Stop laughing!”

 

“Didn’t say anything, Bones,” Jim chuckled, sharing a knowing look with Sulu. “Looking good by the way.”

 

Dr. McCoy rolled his eyes and went back to pulling the sled. “I’m a fucking doctor, damnit, not an ox!”

 

“Or a human snowmobile,” Dr. Uhura offered.

 

“Shut up!” countered Dr. McCoy.

 

Dr. Grayson finally joined their small assembly. In an instant, Dr. Uhura straightened and smiled winningly.

 

“We’re ready, Dr. Grayson,” she announced.

 

“See you later, Bones,” said Jim, turning to follow Dir. Pike. “Don’t break your back.”

 

“ _Ja!_ ” Sulu said, waving at the four of them and jogged to Jim’s side.

 

They watched them go for a few minutes before Dr. Grayson ordered, “Mr. Chekov, return Dr. McCoy’s jacket.” To Dr. McCoy, he said, “Dr. McCoy, allow me.”

 

Dr. McCoy immediately dropped the rope to Dr. Grayson’s hand and gratefully stepped aside, taking his jacket from Chekov.

 

Their current supervisor placed his field bag on top of the gear and pulled, covering a longer distance than what Dr. McCoy had in one pull. The three of them stood frozen as they were left behind by the force of Dr. Grayson. The man was surprisingly strong for his built.

 

“He is very strong,” observed Chekov in awe.

 

Dr. Uhura smirked, “That’s because he’s young.”

 

Dr. McCoy shot her a menacing look. “You better watch it, lady.”

 

Dr. Uhura chose to ignore his warning, flipping her hair back and ran to Dr. Grayson’s side. Chekov and Dr. McCoy walked slowly behind the sled.

 

“Dr. McCoy, I think Dr. Uhura likes Dr. Grayson,” Chekov whispered conspiratorially to Dr. McCoy. “Mr. Scott said that is not wise.”  

 

“You think?”

 

***

 

Sulu had bundled himself up nicely; he’d got three layers of clothing underneath his thick yellow windbreaker. He had been taken aback when their luggage arrived yesterday, as it consisted of additional things such as winter boots, thermal clothes, including undergarments, and basic tools like flashlights, batteries, walkie-talkies and others more. Their sponsor was truly very generous. Then again, Norway was well known to greatly value cultural heritage, especially their own.

 

In the least, he didn’t feel too cold trekking the snow with Pike and Jim as they continued to appraise their surroundings, searching for more possible sites. The sun helped too. As it was summer in the northern part of the globe, including Norway, the sun remained in the sky throughout the day. Thus, the issue of lacking light to continue with the excavation all day was almost negligible. But they were only humans --- they needed rest, food supplements, water and sleep. Sulu was thankful that Pike decided for only a total of nine hours of work each day of the week --- four hours in the morning, an hour of lunch break and five hours in the afternoon. It was an impact assessment and rescue, after all. He vaguely wondered how the other sites were doing, or if they had a similar schedule as theirs.

 

The breeze was gentle, like an early spring in most temperate countries below the Arctic Circle. It was a good day for a survey, though Sulu couldn’t help but internally complain since Pike appeared to be leading them in circles. Everything was covered with snow and ice --- it was hard to see where this ‘survey’ was going to take them. Thank goodness it was summer; he didn’t need to worry about a sudden blizzard blowing them away like a paper.

 

Jim, however, was not complaining, he barely even said a word to either Pike or him. Which Sulu found odd since that wasn’t how he had pictured Jim. He had always assured that the man was not the type of person who would easily listen and follow something that was so absurd and completely a waste of his time.

 

Yes, Sulu thought that what they were doing was a waste of time. Then again, what could he do? He was not the site director and if their sponsor wanted them to survey several areas of the barren, white land, then he could only follow.

 

He looked at the GPS device in his hand. Huh, they had pretty much had walked about one mile and a half. It wasn’t a difficult trek anyway. The ground they walked on was flat and desolated --- they hadn’t even met any bears or reindeers roaming about, which was good because at least there wasn’t any snake. Sulu remembered doing a number of surveys in the mountains. It was exciting, but horrible and exhausting. Trees were everywhere, plants with deadly, sharp leaves would cling to his cargo pants and cut his skin, insects that fed on his blood, and the ground was always wet. And snakes! Lots and lots and lots of snakes! Well, it was _not_ his fault that he didn’t recognize that he was standing inside a massive pit, with several snake holes around. Besides, that was _one_ time!

 

Sulu sighed, another half to go before they reached their three-mile aim. Well, unless Pike changed his mind and make them continue, which was most likely.

 

***

 

Dr. Grayson stabbed the measuring rod securely into the concrete tube. “Dr. Uhura and Dr. McCoy, secure our datum point. Mr. Chekov, with me.” He walked about four meters away from the assigned datum point for the other two to start working on the setting-up the trenches. They stopped to where the total station was perched. “This is the total station. Do you need instructions to retrieve the GPS coordinates?”

 

“No, sir,” said Chekov proudly, yet politely.

 

“Did you have GPS training? Perhaps from your engineering classes?” asked Dr. Grayson with curiosity. Chekov couldn’t understand why people think Dr. Grayson didn’t have emotions when he could see Dr. Grayson’s reactions quite clearly. Perhaps it was his physics background on subatomic particles that made him slightly more observant than other people.

 

“I know how to work on the GPS, sir,” Chekov answered, proud yet again. “And Jim reviewed me this morning.”

 

“I see,” said Dr. Grayson flatly. “Moving on, our GPS has been programmed to be directly transferred to any of the team’s laptop, like so. It will automatically input the coordinates.” He pointed at the screen of the device. “This is our datum point, or DP, for instance. Based on our map, when the ice shelf melts entirely in the mid-summer, this area would be the edge of the beach.”

 

Chekov thought for a moment, then, “But that would be too high, yes? It would just be air, sir.”

 

“For that reason, we utilize the total station. I have calibrated it to---” Dr. Grayson stopped and turned around. “Dr. Uhura, please do not injure our only on-site medical doctor. There are still twenty-one remaining days of our stay in this area.”

 

Dr. Uhura smiled at Dr. Grayson before scowling back at Dr. McCoy. The two of them were clearly not getting along while they set-up their DP. Chekov wondered if they’d be able to do what was assigned to them without injuring one another.

 

Dr. Grayson turned his attention back to Chekov. “As I was saying, the total station had been calibrated to sea level. In that way, our DP’s coordinates are permanent. Is that understood?” With Chekov’s nod, he continued, “Good. Now, if the object of our excavation--- One moment, Mr. Chekov.” He turned around again.

 

“Dr. McCoy, please refrain from attempting to throw things at Dr. Uhura. We cannot afford to have a permanently injured team member. As a medical doctor, I am certain that what you are doing goes against your Hippocratic Oath,” he said. “Work quietly, the both of you.”

 

There was a grumble, but Dr. Grayson ignored that. “Now, Mr. Chekov, let us do some exercises. Where is the north?”

 

Chekov was unsure. The true north or magnetic north was difficult to pinpoint without the use of compass. In any case, they were in the Arctic Circle making a compass useless. Mr. Scott had advised him that there was another north usually used by archaeologists, the arbitrary north. Since Dr. Grayson didn’t specify and neither had Chekov been told where both north were, he thought that maybe the question was philosophical. Thus, he hesitantly pointed a finger to the sky.

 

Dr. Grayson tilted his head, as though he was trying to solve a puzzle. “What are you pointing at?”

 

“The north, sir!” Chekov answered excitedly.

 

With a raised eyebrow, Dr. Grayson carefully asked, “Who taught you that?”

 

Chekov immediately launched an explanation. “A compass wouldn’t work here, yes? So we have to find an arbitrary north. Jim told me that both the true north and arbitrary north must be above us. Mr. Scott confirmed it, sir!”

 

Dr. Grayson looked at the snow, then at Chekov, then at the sky before going back to the younger boy. “From this very moment onwards, Mr. Chekov, when in the field, you will only apply what I have personally taught you. Do you understand? I believe Dr. Kirk was… pulling your leg.”

 

“Really?” Chekov blinked at him innocently.

 

Dr. Grayson took out his pack of cigarettes and knocked it four times by the edge of his palm. “I believe it is time for a break.”

 

***

 

He was right, Pike _did_ change his mind, the fickle bastard. When they had reached their three-mile initial aim, Pike had taken them westwards. _And_ they hadn’t had a break since they left the camp! It was torture! When he had told Pike that he needed to eat before they were to climb the shelf, as he was hungry, he was brushed off and was ordered to take his snack or drink water while they moved on. For an old man, he sure had some stamina. Jim didn’t say anything, but had offered him an energy bar from his stash.

 

 _ Seriously! _

 

Their dinner last night was nothing but sandwiches and the same energy bars, and so was their breakfast! Of course Sulu was hungry. Who wouldn’t be? Scott better prepare a feast for them tonight, because if he didn’t, then he would go to Narada himself and demand that the team should be fed properly. He’d steal from them if he had to! It was bad enough there was no rice in the whole damn island --- he had to suffer this--- this preposterously _bland_ snack!

 

“Sulu,” Pike called as they stopped. “How many miles have we covered?”

 

Sulu scowled, cursing the measuring system, and checked the GPS while mentally calculating the distance they had covered, which was pretty long. Yet they still hadn’t found anything. “Almost five miles from the camp.”

 

Pike nodded, “Alright, we’ll continue northwest.”

 

“Do you even _know_ where we’re going?” Jim suddenly asked in an impatient tone, his hands clutching the strap of the tranquilizer gun slung on his shoulder.

 

About an hour since they had begun, Sulu had noticed that there was a thick tension building between his friend and their site director. He had paid no attention to it, thinking that it was his over-active imagination. But now, all Sulu ever wanted was to cut the rope that held them together for safety, tie the both of them together and shove them off the first cliff he could find!

 

“Like I told you,” said Pike, breathing hard, “I don’t know its exact location.”

 

Sulu’s head shot up before Jim could open his mouth. “ _What?! Punyeta_ , then what the hell have we been doing?!” He angrily dropped his gear bag on the ground. “I thought this was a fucking survey, and now you’re saying that you’re specifically looking for a _specific_ something? The hell! Do you have any idea, _sir_ , that we’re not equipped enough to climb this damn mountain?”

 

Pike narrowed his eyes in warning, but Sulu was no longer caring. “It’s a need to know basis, Sulu,” said Pike calmly, dangerously.

 

“ _No_. For the last hours, we’ve been going around in circles and then suddenly you decided to climb the mountain.” Sulu crossed his arms over his chest and firmly held his ground. “I’m not moving here unless you two tell me what the hell is going on!”

 

Pike looked like he wanted to abandon him at this exact moment.

 

Then Jim blocked his view of their director. Sulu turned his glare to him instead. Jim pushed his goggles up and smiled genuinely at him, which startled Sulu because he certainly wasn’t too happy with their situation either. And Jim had also been radiating irritation earlier.

 

With both hands on Sulu’s shoulders, Jim quietly said, “Pike received a specific order from the Federation council. He’s only told me because I accidentally heard him and Spock talking about it last night. I’m not exactly sure what we’re looking for here and neither does Pike, but I think we’ll know it once we get there. So calm down, okay, buddy?”

 

Sulu studied Jim for a long time, peaked at Pike, who just nodded and shrugged, before he returned to look at Jim. It would be more dangerous to just go back to the camp alone, and that would precisely go against his principles. Wearing a frown still, Sulu picked his bag and said, “I want a break every two hours.”

 

Jim turned to Pike. “That fine?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” sighed Pike.

 

“There’d better be a feast tonight,” grumbled Sulu, “Or I’d never do surveys ever again.”

 

With a laugh, Jim clapped his arm and they resumed their trek.

 

***

 

A good two hours later, they had begun setting-up the grid. Uhura stood with a measuring rod in her hand, with McCoy carrying the metal pegs. Chekov was handling the total station while Spock continued to monitor the younger man. Judging from what had happened earlier, he had to make sure that Chekov was correctly announcing the numbers from the device’s readings. They certainly couldn’t afford to start all over again if there had been a mistake. Setting up the grid was easy, but it was time consuming.

 

They had already established a baseline of twenty-five meters long. With that, they now had to create three trenches: two one-by-one meter square, and a three-by-one meter long trench. Spock had already instructed them where the trenches would be, so it would be easy for Chekov to do.

 

“To the left please, Dr. Uhura,” Chekov was saying, and Uhura followed, moving the rod with her. “A little more, yes… stop!”

 

Uhura lifted the rod high enough for McCoy to hammer the peg into the ground. Another review to see if it had the same coordinates as the previous one, Chekov confirmed the accuracy of the peg’s location.

 

“What are the coordinates, Mr. Chekov?” asked Spock, field notebook and pen in hand.

 

Chekov made sure that his voice was loud enough for Uhura to hear. “Five meters south, and three meters west.”

 

Spock nodded as he wrote in his field notebook. “Good. Now, we are to create a one-by-one trench.”

 

The younger man proceeded to give instructions as to where Uhura should place the measuring rod. Fifteen minutes later, they were done with their first trench. Chekov felt proud of himself once again, especially as he looked at the four metal pegs embedded into the ground in a square formation.

 

“The second trench will be a three-by-one trench,” Spock said. “Start at thirteen meters south of the baseline and then five meters westwards.”

 

Chekov followed the direction. The procedure was similar as the first one and Chekov had quickly gotten the hang of it. He had a degree in physics after all. Numbers were very easy for him to understand. It was as though he was just plotting points in a Cartesian coordinate system. This was practically uncomplicated.

 

Finally on the third trench, seventeen meters south from the DP and six meters west from that point, Chekov felt more excited. They were going to start excavating soon!

 

McCoy was hammering the second peg, which was a meter apart from the first, when he accidently missed the top of the peg.

 

Uhura, who had hugged the measuring rod in one arm to free her hands so she could record the coordinates in her journal, suddenly jumped in both surprise and pain that she fell hard on the ground with a very loud shriek.

 

Both Chekov and Spock turned to her direction.

 

“Sorry!” cried McCoy, immediately putting the hammer behind him. “Sorry, sorry, I slipped.” As he hurriedly lifted her injured foot, about to remove her boot, Uhura’s hand shot up and smacked his face.

 

“Where the hell did you get that arm?” McCoy groaned, opening and closing his jaw to reduce the muscle pain in his cheek.

 

“You stupid idiot!” yelled Uhura, face heating up in anger as she flung her foot from McCoy’s grasp.

 

McCoy grabbed her foot again, his instinct winning against his own annoyance. “Relax, I just need to take a look. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

 

Folding her arms over her chest, she grumbled, “Yeah, because you have _great_ hand coordination!”

 

The doctor was about to retort when Spock, who had jogged towards them earlier with Chekov, intervened. “I believe you should allow Dr. McCoy to examine the extent of your injury, Dr. Uhura.”

 

With a grunt, Uhura allowed McCoy to remove her boot.

 

“It’s fine,” said McCoy minutes later, placing her foot back into her boot. “But I need to prevent the swelling.”

 

“Very well, doctor,” Spock concurred. “Please take her back to the camp.”

 

McCoy nodded, scooping Uhura from the ground while he ignored the woman’s very vocal protests.

 

***

 

Jim suddenly stopped in front of him that Sulu bumped his cold nose into the man’s back. He didn’t need to see that Pike was pulled back by Jim’s sudden action. “What the hell, Jim?”

 

“Shhh,” Jim said, looking around. “Do you hear that?”

 

Sulu strained his ear and listened carefully. Nothing came at the first few seconds, but then he heard its growing sound. Motors! “That’s---”

 

“A snowmobile,” finished Pike with a frown.

 

Jim shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like it’s alone.”

 

They exchanged worried looks, silently confirming that they were all thinking the same thing. A few more seconds, they bolted into a run.

 

 _ Damnit!  _ thought Sulu frantically. _I didn’t sign up for this kind of shit!_ He made a huge mistake when he looked back and saw three snowmobiles, with at least three white figures on each; they had guns sticking out of their backs. _Shit!_ Poachers! They needed to find a place to hide quickly.

 

Jim had removed the rifle on his back and was holding it in front of him as they ran. But that wouldn’t do them any good, especially if the poachers were carrying real guns with _real_ bullets.

 

The pilot who had transported them to the camp had warned them about the possible appearance of poachers. Sulu had dismissed the warning without thought since the probability of them encountering one in the middle of an uninhabited land was impossible. Apparently, he was wrong.

 

Faster and faster, they sprinted across the snow-covered ground, hurrying towards a giant protruding rock formation and quickly moving around the labyrinth-like area to confuse their likely hunters. They stopped and plastered their backs against the hard rock. The wind felt colder. But maybe that was because they were already quite high up in the mountain. Or maybe it was because of they were near a cliff, which they saw earlier.

 

Pike had a revolver out, shocking Sulu. Was he expecting something akin to this to happen? Never mind. Pike must be the kind of man who always brought a gun in the field. Sulu could understand that. Between them, Jim held the rifle casually, as though he wasn’t holding a non-lethal weapon.

 

“What combat training did you have?” breathed Jim quietly.

 

Sulu looked at him directly in the eye and answered, “Fencing.” Jim blinked, but didn’t utter another word.

 

“Shhh,” Pike ordered sternly. “They’ve stopped.”

 

He was right, there were no sounds of any engine running. But they could faintly hear stomps and scuffling of heavy boots like wolves playing in the snow. Sulu held his breath.

 

There were gargles of statics, insistent gargles of command and cocking of guns. Shit, they needed to find a better location --- a cave or some underground tunnel where they could _not_ be tracked.

 

Slowly, he crouched down and took out the hunting knife from within the confines of his right boot. Jim lifted an eyebrow at him once he returned to his previous position against the rock. He shrugged, licking his dry lips as he raised the knife. The noise got louder then; Sulu tightened his hold on the knife, heart drumming deafeningly against his chest.

 

 _ Krrtz.  _ “No trace of them, over,” said a man through his handheld transceiver. “I repeat, no trace of them, over.” _Krrtz._ “Copy that, sir.” _Krrtz._

 

Then, “We follow the trail up the mountain. We’ve got three hours then we go back. Let’s move out!”

 

“Yes, sir!” came a chorus of deep voices.

 

Several minutes passed and the noise receded. They waited for several more. Then, at long last, the roar of the snowmobiles’ engines echoed through the silence. Once they were certain that they were absolutely by themselves, the three of them released their breaths.

 

“What the fuck was that?” asked Sulu, hands on his knees.

 

“Treasure hunters,” Pike answered as he placed his revolver back inside his coat.

 

Jim looked at him, brows furrowed. “How can you be sure?”

 

“Trust me, Jim,” said Pike. “I’ve had too many encounters with their kind, I can tell.”

 

Sulu was puzzled. “What are they doing here? The Norwegian government had dispatched a portion of their army to guard all of us. How did they get pass them?”

 

“I don’t know,” admitted Pike. “But we better take another route back to the camp just to be safe.” He and Jim agreed with a nod. “Let’s go, I think the coast’s clear.”

 

Pike led them to the area near the cliff they saw earlier, telling them that they had to trek down by it to avoid any confrontations with the treasure hunters. But before they could take another step, a man, clad in a white coat with his face hidden within the hood and behind dark goggles, appeared, a gun pointed at them.

 

In quick reflex, Sulu threw his knife, driving it into the man’s shoulder and before he could fire, Jim had shot him with the tranquilizer gun. Another man came running, ready to shoot them.

 

It was then that everything happened too fast.

 

Sulu was barely aware of what exactly was happening. All he knew as they defended themselves against two armed men willing to kill them was that he was hurling two of his knives against them. Then, when he ducked to avoid an oncoming bullet, Sulu slipped, dragging Jim _and_ Pike with him as they fell off the cliff.

 

They were going to _die_.

 

***

 

Quartermastering was an art. And Scott’s generation of quartermasters had even elevated it to a martial art. If the history of quartermastering was to be written, its genesis could be found in Egypt’s Old Kingdom, where surplus goods needed management. Although quartermasters would happily sit in a dingy office and do numbers, they were no paper (or papyrus) pushers. Quartermasters were made, primarily, for battle. Where soldiers and generals wielded their arms in the air and screamed battle cries in the field, the quartermasters fought their own battle in an adjacent field called the camp. A different brand of heroes was made in the pre-battle moments of any war.

 

Scott laid down five plates, one for each member of the team present. Beyond it were several other plates loaded with the ingredients for the best Montgomery Scott Sandwich Surprise. Scotty stretched his arms in front of him. Assembling sandwiches was a meticulous task that involved accuracy and precision. Entire excavations had been shut down because of arguments on the inequality of food provisions. Scotty wasn’t taking any chances. Once the sandwiches were assembled, he positioned them in front of the chairs for easy distribution. He then put the kettle on for tea. Lunch was going to be reminiscent of last night’s dinner. Scotty smiled devilishly --- it was a prelude to a rather fantastic dinner he was going to prepare tonight.

 

Narada was as well armed as Scott had thought. There were snowmobiles, crates of arms, and explosives hidden under camouflage tarps. The men were rightfully scary looking and even smelled ex-military. It was enough to give Scott the willies. He had no doubt that he could not just walk in there and ask for supplies. Quartermasters did not survive this long by doing stupid things.

 

He had carefully avoided Nero’s emperor tent, skidding along the supplies tent, where it had enough provisions to feed a small army. Luckily, Scott had made it to the area with the least amount of traffic. It seemed that no one really went in there except for some inexperienced cook. Ha, this was like taking candy from a babe.

 

If Scott had done his math right, there was going to be a party tonight, and for a few days more. Food was the number one morale booster in an excavation and, as the days go by, would become a paramount concern. In fact, even if this was day two, Scott could smell the drama brewing.

 

Two of his colleagues entered the bunker with two strings of swearing: one was screechy and the other was a deep roar. Ah, McCoy had hammered Uhura’s foot by accident. Scott smiled. Why not? McCoy was used to ignoring his feelings by burying it under work and bourbon. But deep under his outer crust, toughened by a bad divorce, was a squishy marshmallow. On the other hand, Uhura had the squishy outside that surrounded a core of corrugated iron. She was one of the toughest lass he’d ever met. And pretty driven at that --- driven towards a goal that was Spock. Scott shook his head. For him, it was great to watch but it was a waste of time. She could have been doing lovey-dovey stuff with McCoy instead of pining for a boy who was clearly into another boy already.

 

Scott turned to happier thoughts. Ah, this was rather unexpected. He’d known Jim for a long while now and the man was so smart that he based his attraction on a person by other standards that did not include gender. Jim had been careful not to shit in his own backyard, but there’d been looks here and there. The Plenary Hall was alive with Jim’s--- how should he put this? --- _attraction_. The lad had only known Spock for a few days, but it was enough to _see_ that Spock could feel Jim on him. And he didn’t do anything about it. Silence meant a possibility of yes. Scott shivered with glee. He liked this excavation --- _it’s exciting!_

 

He wiped his hands on a towel. As McCoy and Uhura’s bickering died down to a calmer exchange, Scott knew that he’d be seeing more of this love-diamond in the works. This was, after all, the field. And no one could hide _anything_ in the field… even the secrets you didn’t know you had.

 

***

 

Sulu was breathing hard, refusing the urge to look down. The treasure hunters, who most likely thought they had plunged into their deaths, had already left. But the three of them remained dangling on the cliff and Pike couldn’t certainly bear their weights for long. Grunting, Sulu removed his gloves with his teeth and quickly unclasped the straps of his backpack. Without regret, he let it fall. Then, he pulled out the butterfly knife he’d always kept with him at all times. Thank the gods his maternal grandfather had always told him to never leave the house without a knife.

 

He flicked his wrist to open the knife and yelled, “I’m going to climb up! Jim, get ready!” Sulu held tightly on the rope with one hand while the other cut the rope close to his stomach. Their weight then shifted and they moved, dangerously swinging. Putting the hilt of his knife between his teeth, he climbed onto Jim, using the other’s shoulders as leverage once he reached it. There was no stopping even for a second because he would lose his momentum, and they could _not_ die in this goddamned place.

 

As soon as Sulu had one boot on Jim’s shoulder, he hurried to scale the rope between Jim and Pike, careful and mindful of the fact that he couldn’t let them sway again. He seized the rope around Pike’s hip and pulled himself up.

 

Finally, he reached the top edge and without pausing, he dropped on his stomach and stabbed the knife into the ground. He stretched himself as much as he could and held Pike by the arms. “Jim!” he bellowed. “Climb up!”

 

There was another shifting of weight as Jim moved. When Jim was within his reach, Sulu held out his other arm for Jim to take. The additional weight on him had dragged Sulu forwards that the rock was directly digging into his abdomen. It hurt, damnit, but he had no plans of letting either of them go. He was relieved when Jim was finally at his side, and together, they heaved Pike up.

 

The three of them gracelessly slumped onto the ground, breathing so hard that they might consume all the air around them.

 

That was _far_ too close.

 

Sulu rolled to his side, pushing himself up as he turned to his companions and said, “I want to be reimbursed. That bag has my _ojiisan’s_ three-hundred-year-old medallion.”

 

Both gave him an incredulous look as though he’d grown a second head. Then, Jim laughed out loud, relieved and glad and thankful and happy --- so happy just to be _alive_. He and Pike joined him shortly.

 

***

 

While lunch was a feast of sandwiches, dinner was a whole other matter. Scott’s successful supply run had produced ham, chicken, cheese, bread, butter, salad and rice (for Sulu). The team showed their appreciation by wolfing down dinner at record time. It would have been their first real dinner together as a team, if only Pike had not excused himself and went on his way to Narada. He didn’t even take Scott’s dessert of pre-made cupcakes with vanilla icing with him as a snack.

 

All of them were having such fun, taking their minds off the events that happened to them earlier in the day, especially Jim and Sulu. Both men agreed with Pike that they wouldn’t let the others know. They might be scarred for life, but for now, they locked the memories of the encounter in the recesses of their minds.

Tonight was about happy thoughts!

 

Familiar with organized fun, Uhura suggested that the team should get to know each other more through relating how they’d decided to become archaeologists.

 

“C’mon, guys! It’ll be fun,” urged Uhura with a wide smile. “This is going to be the only night we get to do this. There won’t be any time in the next days since we’re all going to be busy finishing our recording forms and accessioning artifacts. And we’re going to be too tired and stressed out.”

 

Sadly, that was true. Reluctantly, the men surrendered to her request.

 

She gleefully clapped her hands and looked at Spock. “You first.”

 

Spock moved his glass in a circular motion. “I decided to pursue archaeology after I saw its promotion for the benefit of First Nations in my mother’s home country, Canada.”

 

The team expressed their disapproval at his generic answer.

 

“It is true. I realized that archaeology was all around me,” continued Spock. “And there was a very good archaeology department in Victoria University.” He looked at his teammates. “I am aware that it is not an interesting answer, however it is the truth. As more time passed, I have come to love the discipline.”

 

“Because it’s the only place where those with clinical OCD are accepted?” teased Sulu, to which the team responded with hilarity.

 

“Shhh!” shushed Uhura. “That’s very noble of you, Spock.”

 

The men, except for Spock, hid their snickers.

 

McCoy, who sat to Spock’s right, reluctantly agreed to go next when all eyes locked on him, even the overgrown elf. “Fine! I got into archaeology because of politics. A mission with Red Cross in a Maori settlement opened my eyes and I saw their struggle to get equal rights.” He took a sip from his drink, and continued, “It wasn’t right. They got there first before the colonizers arrived and claimed their lands. My efforts as a medical doctor could only do so much, so I decided to help them more. Then, here I am, a human paleontologist specializing on aboriginal archaeology.”

 

“That’s very noble of you, Bones,” Jim crooned, mimicking Uhura’s earlier pitch. McCoy kicked him under the table.

 

Being in such a good mood, Uhura chose to ignore Jim’s remark and happily took her turn. “Everyone knows I was in the cheering squad, right?”

 

“Oh, yeah, especially me,” declared McCoy, rubbing his cheek in remembrance of that slap this morning.

 

“Very funny, McCoy. Anyway, on my senior year, we nearly won first place for our division. It was the first time for our squad --- for the entire university even! So, I decided to find an MA course that sounded easy to stay in my squad. When I passed my comps on my first take, I realized that I really liked archaeology. When I got on my PhD track, I quit the squad and focused on my dissertation, and the rest, as they say, is history!”

 

“Wow, that even sounded more boring than both mine and the hobglobin combined,” McCoy taunted playfully as he consumed his drink.

 

Uhura glared at him in warning, but it contained no heat.

 

The quartermaster then ceremoniously emptied his whiskey glass before taking the spotlight. “Studyin’ wasn’t for me, so I became a shovel bum,” Scott laughed, mostly to himself. “Anyhow, da got really mad. Said I ought to get a bloody MA from Oxford, or he’d disowned me. I did what I was told. Da dinna specify, so I took what I thought would annoy him. And here I am now, with the best lot of them all!”

 

“What happened to your PhD?” asked Chekov curiously. Silence descended on the table. The others already knew what happened to Scott. In fact, that story was quite infamous.

 

“Well,” began Scott. “I got into a fight with my adviser, Prof. Archer. Told him I’d find Nessie for me dissertation. I’m from Scotland, of course I know where to find Nessie. The defense panel dinna like it much. They declared me insane and dinna let me graduate. I told ‘em they could keep their letters! I went out and became an archaeologist without ‘em. And you, lads and lassie, especially you, Chekov, don’t let anyone tell you tha’ ye can’t do anything. Because, chances are, ye can do it!”

 

Chekov nodded, taking the advice to heart. “Did you find Nessie?”

 

“Of course, I did, lad!” exclaimed Scott with a laugh. “I’ll give ye a copy of my book when we get back to Oslo.”

 

“What about you, Chekov?” Uhura asked quickly, preventing Scott from reciting how he had discovered the remains of the Lochness Monster, because once he started, nothing could stop him.

 

Chekov’s story took a more romantic turn. “When I was very young, I went to a school for smart pupils. Everyone said that I would be the best physicist in Russia. I believed them, so I enrolled to physics. But in my last year of undergraduate, I met the most beautiful girl in the world! When she smiled, the whole world becomes brighter. She was already taking archaeology, so after I graduated, I went to archaeology to be with her.”

 

“Oh, yeah, I remember her,” Sulu said suddenly, which made Chekov blink several times. “Her name is… Anya, right? You pushed me off the stage that night at the welcome party!”

 

“Aye,” Scott concurred. “I saw that.”

 

Chekov flushed red in embarrassment. “Sorry, Sulu.”

 

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” dismissed Sulu with a chuckle. “My turn. From the start, I’ve wanted to be badass! Too bad _otousan_ \--- erm, my father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and become a businessman. Being the rebel that I am, I picked up sociology for college, took MA Archaeology and then continued it all the way to doctorate studies. Despite that, I really love being an archaeologist.”

 

“Wasn’t your father furious with you?” inquired Uhura, curious. “My father would have been furious at me!”

 

“Oh, he was,” chuckled Sulu. “But my mother talked to him. We’re still shaky, but we’re civil to each other, especially if mama’s there.”

 

“Join the club, laddie!” Scotty hollered in approval.

 

Jim snorted, “We should make a club for archaeologists with daddy issues.”

 

“Jim,” said McCoy, “Your issues _have_ issues.”

 

“Wait a minute,” exclaimed Sulu, “You have daddy issues? I thought…”

 

Jim couldn’t help but mordantly smirk, “It’s part of this legacy thing. You’d think legacies get it easy when people recognize your name and funds just come rushing in. But, you know, it’s not all they promised it to be. Someone that has your name has done it before you that there’s this heavy load of expectations you had to carry for the rest of your life.”

 

“You chose archaeology for your family’s sake?” Spock asked unexpectedly.

 

“I guess,” Jim shrugged. “My father’s ancestors were doing it. Hell, my grandfather _and_ great grandfather were archaeologists. I tried to get into a naval track, but that didn’t work out as planned.” He sighed, “Whatever I did, someone would always mention that other Kirk and what he’s done.”

 

“Don’t be such a drama queen, Jim. It doesn’t suit you,” chided McCoy gently. He knew Jim’s story and he was not in the mood to think about it. “Besides, you’ve been using your name to pick up girls in your university, so I say it’s no burden!”

 

Everyone laughed, even Spock quirked his lips in a small smile.

 

The conversation then went to shoptalk about the competition brewing between the five sites currently in Edge Island. Yet they agreed, that rivalry aside, all archaeologists are working for the same goal of protecting and promoting cultural heritage.

 

Team Enterprise got to their feet, and raised their glasses to honor their oath, _“We are archaeologists. And we dig as one!”_

 

*****


	6. Chapter Five

  


  


 

“Roger that, Enterprise,” replied Narada over the radio. Uhura glanced at the monitors on the wall. It showed that the scanned documents from yesterday’s excavation had been successfully sent through the intranet.

 

“How’s Prof. Pike? Over,” asked Uhura as casual as she could manage. They hadn’t seen their site director since their third night. It had been five days since, and they were getting increasingly worried. Pike hadn’t even contacted Spock, his second-in-command.

 

“I do not have visual right now,” answered Narada’s communications operator. “But he was drunk as a skunk last night with Nero and Carter. Over.”

 

“What’s Farragut’s site director doing there. Over,” Uhura inquired, puzzled and curious.

 

“Celebrating Farragut’s artefacts. Over.”

 

Uhura growled in irritation before responding, “Congratulations to Farragut. Over and out.” She was off of her seat before Narada had a chance to reply, stomping her way back to the site. Although she tried to control her aggravation, she still couldn’t believe that a team like Farragut had found artifacts before them. They had five PhD holders, a veteran shovel bum and a child genius! It was simply unacceptable.

Today marked the first week of the excavation, yet their progress had been too slow, even for her.

 

About fifteen minutes later, Uhura could see the three red tents jutting out of the snow. The tents provided a cover against the cold and the sun as it housed each of the three trenches. Uhura and Chekov shared Trench 1, while McCoy and Scott dug Trench 3. The long trench, Trench 2, was managed by Kirk and Spock. On the other hand, Sulu continued to map the unexposed vessel underneath their trenches, which was revealed by the ground penetration radar readings they’d received prior to their arrival.

 

Sulu was peering through the total station lens as Uhura passed by. He turned and waved at her, but she didn’t see him. He shrugged and checked the position of the measuring rod planted near the third trench’s tent. Sulu had always loved working with technology and didn’t mind doing things on his own. That was, expect when someone would carelessly knock down the fucking rod.

 

“Hey!”

 

McCoy murderously stared at the fallen equipment in his way. The idiot Sulu had positioned it too close to the tent’s entrance. _Again_. Not his problem, so he simply stepped over it, amidst Sulu’s protests. When he was far enough from the trench, McCoy pulled out a cigarette and began to smoke, blocking out everything around him.

 

Scott peeked his head out of the tent. “I’ll talk to Jim! It’ll be alright!” he promised to McCoy’s retreating form. He was finding it a challenge to appeal to McCoy’s reasonable side since they both found no good reason to follow Pike’s excavation method, which was spitting. They had pleaded to Spock to allow Trench 3 to use the natural excavation method.

 

“There’s no point digging every ten centimeters if all you’ve got is bloody ice!” explained Scott to Jim as they stood outside Trench 2’s tent.

 

“I know, Scotty. Believe me,” said Jim calmly. “I’ve dug natural too. But you and I both know that we have to do what the site director wants---”

 

“The site director’s not here!” said Scott desperately. He sighed, letting his guard down. The exhaustion he had been skillfully hiding from everyone finally showed in his features. “You don’t want the good doctor to have a word with your boyfriend, lad,” warned Scott. “That’s playin’ with fire.”

 

“Scotty,” Jim sighed tiredly. “He’s not my boyfriend, nor am I his. I know this rumor has been going around for the past days, but come _on_ , give us a break.”

 

Jim rubbed his face with his free hand as Scott got back inside his trench. Scotty had a point though. Although Bones had not personally expressed his disapproval of Jim’s supposed relationship with Spock, it emanated from every conversation they’d had. Granted, Bones was pissed about everything as days passed --- the excavation method, the isolation, the lack of his usual brand of bourbon, Sulu’s bouncy optimism, Chekov’s perkiness and eagerness, Uhura’s prima donna personality, Scotty’s cheerful disposition and Spock’s bull-headedness. But what baffled Jim more was Bones’ sudden irritation with his newfound closeness with Spock. His friend had been snubbing him and that led Jim to spend more time in the Artefact Management Room, mostly playing chess against one another and sharing stories since they still hadn’t found a single artefact.

 

In their isolated state, Jim was pleasantly surprised to be able to connect with someone who played mean chess and seemed to understand his person.

 

“Is everything alright with Trench Three?” asked Spock when Jim returned to Trench 2.

 

“Same old ranting,” replied Jim. He picked up the pick and went back inside the trench, intent on working.

 

“The situation is getting out of hand,” remarked Spock. “Dr. McCoy is becoming troublesome.”

 

Jim tensed, absent-mindedly raising the pick in his hand. It didn’t quite sit well with him that Spock would address his friend so carelessly. “He’s an old dog. You know what they say, can’t teach old dogs new tricks.”

 

“On the contrary, you can teach anyone new tricks with proper motivation,” countered Spock.

 

Friction suddenly rose within the confines of the tent. One of Pike’s last orders before he disappeared to Narada was to appoint Jim as second-in-command under Spock, who stood as their field director in his absence. The two of them had discussed McCoy’s situation before, during one of their chess matches. Spock could not comprehend why Jim would choose the doctor’s irrational actions over logic and direct orders. However, Spock was confident that Jim would eventually see reason.

 

He moved towards the tent’s flap, carefully watching Jim for his next move. The ice pick rose dangerously, accompanied by a piercing look.

 

As the excavation progressed, which was not much really, Spock had begun to agree to Pike’s decision to install Jim in Heidelberg University. Jim though had merely brushed the idea off when he told him of Pike’s decision. It was understood that acceptance into the faculty was a great honor and an immense career development. However, Jim must first grow as a field archaeologist before he set foot in Spock’s prestigious department.

 

They remained locked in a staring contest: Spock by the flap and Jim within the trench. After few more minutes, Spock turned.

 

But before he could pass through the opening, Uhura was suddenly inside the tent, making Spock step back to give her and Chekov, who was closely behind her, enough room.

 

She appeared flushed --- enraged. “Farragut has artifacts,” she announced without elaborating. She looked at him, slid a glance at Jim, then back at him. Spock was more than a little surprised that Uhura had chosen to speak to either of them again. The rumors that he and Jim were involved in romantic relations had caused the woman to ignore both their presence. Unlike the situation with McCoy, Uhura could still behave professionally and civilly in the field.

 

“Did you hear what I’ve just said? Farragut has artifacts and all we have is a meter thick of ice!” she screeched. “This is embarrassing!”

 

Chekov stared apologetically at his feet, reddening by the second, while Uhura shook with fury.

 

When Spock and Jim didn’t respond, Uhura threw her hands in the air in frustration. “Fuck this!” She walked out of the tent, with Chekov following her silently.

 

“Increase the spit from ten centimeters to thirty,” said Spock over his shoulder.

 

“Agreed,” said Jim as Spock left the tent.

 

***

 

Dinner was oddly silent as tension radiated from each person seated around the dining table. Sulu was playing with his food, poking it with his fork. Uhura held her chin up as she quietly ate, while beside her, Chekov looked like he was about to cry. At the head of the table, Spock watched them while he consumed his meal as though he was waiting for one of them to have a breakdown. Scott, on the other hand, was humming some sort of Scottish folksong, paying the rest no heed. McCoy was nowhere to be found.

 

Jim carried a bottle of whiskey he’d gotten earlier from Scotty; alcohol always worked with men like them. He carefully opened the door near the kitchen sink and announced that he was going outside. He didn’t wait for Spock, or anyone for that matter, to acknowledge what he’d just said --- he doubted they’d heard him. Once he was outside, his eyes immediately landed on Bones, who sat at a chair and was smoking his lungs out, several paces from their shelter.

 

He sighed. One week and the strain of the rescue project had taken a toll on them. Granted that almost all of them were not used of working in the field without hired local labor, it shouldn’t exhaust them too much. Besides, there was no artifact to accession and not much to write in their field notebooks --- writing the words ‘still an ice layer and permafrost’ could get irritating as they went deeper, ten centimeters in a day. Well, thirty-centimeters now, since Spock had acquiesced to their frustrations.

 

Their commander wasn’t handling the team’s dynamic too well. Jim couldn’t blame him though, because it was rather difficult to manage a field excavation, especially when most of the members of the team were seasoned archaeologists. To control their kind of group was unbearable. If he were in Spock’s shoes, he’d lose his semblance of composure in a matter of minutes. Even so, Spock was doing his best to not allow a bloodbath to ensue --- admirable, truly, yet all of them were threading on eggshells around each other.

 

Someone had to rectify it, and Jim decided to start with McCoy. Since he and Spock didn’t really talk about who would handle who, it was best that Jim spoke with Bones, then with Sulu and Scotty, and let Spock take care of Uhura and Chekov. But first… Bones.

 

Jim approached his friend with caution, standing at Bones’ side and offered him the opened bottle. “Here.” Bones didn’t move, nor took the bottle from his hand. Suppressing a sigh, Jim gulped a mouthful of the whiskey and sat on the cold ground. Man, his ass better not freeze before their talk was over because he’d hate to lose his momentum and he’d have to start all over again.

 

“We’ve been here for a week now,” began Jim, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Just two more weeks to go before we get back to Oslo. Then I guess after that, we can all go home.” Bones continued to smoke in tensed silence. “Maybe you can stop by the States first --- visit Joanna. That’ll make the flight shorter than the one you took here. I’ll come with you; it’s high time I visit my mother.” He paused to search his friend for a reaction. None but the permanent scowl was evident.

 

“How’s your trench?” Jim instigated again, which Bones didn’t seem to have heard. “Well, in trench two, a little deeper and maybe we’ll be able to expose the planks.”

 

Once more, he was met with nothing but smokes. Jim sighed, “Look, I know you’re not used to the spit system and you’ve already excavated something like this at Cape Denison in East Antarctica, but you know the rules: we have to follow whatever the site director, or stand-in director in our case, wants. Pike left Spock in-charge and the guy already raised the depth to thirty centimeters.” He took another drag from his own stick, puffing the smoke upwards. “Scotty’s been a shovel bum for more than ten years. He’s a fast digger and recorder. You guys can expose a part of the ship in no time!”

 

“Jim,” said McCoy with a deep voice that made Jim’s shoulders jump. “What the _hell_ do you want?”

 

Jim took a deep breath, “I just need you to be patient, with everything and everyone. I know how much you don’t like it whenever Sulu tries to make you play World of Warcraft with him, or whenever Chekov asks you questions he should know by now, or every time Uhura reminds you of the injury you gave her, or Scotty’s hysterical babbles and Spock’s higher-than-thou approach. You’ve worked with other archaeologists --- hell, you’ve dealt with patients! It’s not like this is the first time you’ve had to live with eccentric, crazy people.”

 

When Jim glanced to McCoy, his friend was giving him a look mixed with a frown and annoyed confusion. _Finally_ , a reaction!

 

“And,” he added quickly, “You’re used to me --- my quirks, my problems and my ego. I’ve stayed at your place four times for the past three years, and you’ve survived! So I’m sure you can tolerate the others just as easy. You’ve already had practice on that with me.”

 

He licked his lips and waited for Bones’ reply. Which wasn’t what he’d expected.

 

“Are you fucking _high_?” asked Bones, his face contorted and completely at loss. “Did you steal some weed from Sulu’s stash?”

 

Jim blinked. “No,” he answered slowly.

 

Now, Jim was confused. And Sulu brought _weed?!_ How the fuck did he smuggle it here? Why didn’t he know about ---- He violently shook his head. He’d ask about that later. At this time, his focus was on his friend. “No, I’m fine! I’m not high. What the fuck brought that on?”

 

“You were babbling nonsense,” answered McCoy, eyes thinned as he continued to watch Jim with suspicion. “What was I supposed to think?”

 

Did he hear him right? “Nonsense? _Nonsense?_ Bones, I was trying to fix your crazy!” exclaimed Jim. “You’ve been grouchier than usual these past four days. You’ve been acting like a ticking bomb that could blow-up at anytime. _And_ you’ve been avoiding me! What the hell did I do to you anyway? Is this about Spock? Is this about our supposed ‘romance’?”

 

“Jim---”

 

“Because I’m telling you right now, Spock and I are _not_ in a fucking relationship! I don’t know where that fucking rumor came from. How old are you anyway? I never thought you listened to gossips and chit----”

 

 _ “Goddamnit, Jim!” _

 

“ _What?_ ” yelled Jim with equal ferocity.

 

Then, McCoy exhaled in exasperation, before looking at him in the eyes. “Let me get this straight: you think I’ve been in a bad mood because of all that, including the rumors.”

 

“Well, yeah,” nodded Jim with a scowl. “What else could there be? You hate spit method, you’ve been fighting with Scotty, Spock _and_ Sulu, you’ve been yelling at Che---”

 

“Stop, stop,” McCoy ordered, putting both his palms up. “I get it, damnit! I fucking get it.”

 

“Then _what_?”

 

“You,” said McCoy, pointing his finger at him, “are an idiot.” Jim was about to open his mouth when McCoy glared at him. “Shut it!” Jim obeyed with a pout. “You’re an idiot. Those aren’t the reasons, you nitwit. Although they’re all valid, except for the rumor. I don’t fucking care about that, because you’re an adult and you can fuck whoever the hell you want --- as long as you use protection, that’s fine with me.”

 

Okay. “Then, what the hell got you so pissed?” Because really, Jim had run out of ideas as to what put his friend in such an unbearable, foul temper.

 

“You told me,” began McCoy, lighting another cigarette and puffing the smoke out, “that Pike might have been involved in your father’s death. That he was one of those people who might have killed him. That’s why you just _had_ to attend WAC. And don’t lie to me because I know you’ve been disappearing while we were in Oslo, asking older archaeologists if they knew anything about the Kelvin Expedition.”

 

Jim didn’t really think that McCoy had noticed his absence during the first few days of the conference. His presentation was on the fifth day of WAC, and there had only been a few sessions he was interested in. Besides, he could always read the papers once it was published, so he skipped most of it. His search was more important than _anything_.

 

“That’s true,” concurred Jim. “But I don’t see the---”

 

“ _Then_ ,” McCoy interrupted, “you dragged me to enlist in this shit. We’re lucky Pike picked the both of us in his team, or I wouldn’t bother with all this. I’d experienced Antarctica and I had no plans to repeat the experience.”

 

In actuality, Jim had sent Spock an email, whose address he got from Heidelberg University’s faculty profile, after their chance encounter in the museum, telling the other that he’d only join Pike’s team if McCoy were with him. But McCoy didn’t need to know that.

 

“Yeah, lucky,” snorted Jim.

 

“What I don’t understand,” continued McCoy, “is why you’re acting like everything’s fine with Pike. I know you’ve been talking to him when he was here, and you didn’t even complain when he dragged you to a survey. Then, when you, Sulu and Pike got back from that, you three looked like a pack of polar foxes mauled and chased you through the ice! You wouldn’t even tell me what the hell happened!”

 

That was true, Jim had to admit. So his friend had been snubbing him these past days because he’d been hiding something. Well, lots of things in fact. Jim understood, completely.

 

“Sorry for worrying you, Bones,” Jim said quietly, staring at his crossed legs. “It’s just that… it’s just I’m very confused with what’s going on.” He rearranged himself, moving from his position to face McCoy better. “Okay, first things first…”

 

Jim then narrated his first encounter with Pike, the things they’d talked about, what Spock had whispered to his ear that night, Pike’s confession about the Kelvin expedition --- including the things he didn’t know about his father, and the deal they had.

 

McCoy was silent for a very long while, his cigarette forgotten. Then, he moved to take the bottle of whiskey from the ground and had a huge swig. Finally, he said, “So during the survey, Pike’s been leading you to where the Kelvin site might be.”

 

“Yeah,” Jim nodded, carefully watching every twitch of muscle on McCoy’s face.

 

“And you got attacked by poachers.”

 

Again, Jim bobbed his head in confirmation. He couldn’t tell him about the treasure hunters that had gotten them almost killed. That would immediately prompt McCoy to contact the Federation. No, he couldn’t allow that. Jim was so close in finding out the truth.

 

“Pike already reported the incident at Narada,” said Jim. “But I don’t know what they’ve done about it. Probably relayed the report to the reserve and the government.”

 

“Alright,” McCoy said, “then tell me how Pike stretched the muscles of his arms.”

 

Damn, his friend was perceptive. Well, he was a medical doctor after all.“We kinda… felloffacliff.”

 

“ _You three fell off a cliff?!_ ”yelled McCoy, before slapping his head. “How the _fuck_ did that happen?”

 

Jim rubbed the back of his head. “We were running, hiding, fighting, more running and the next thing I know, we were falling. Pike was able to hold on, then Sulu climbed up and helped us to get back up.”

 

Silence, then, “I swear to all the gods I know, Jim,” sighed McCoy, his worry evident. “You need a fucking nanny.”

 

“What happened to the ‘you’re an adult’?” frowned Jim.

 

“I changed my mind,” retorted McCoy.

 

Jim chuckled, retrieving the bottle from him, and took a drink. “So, are we good?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” McCoy replied, crushing the cigarette butt into the ground. “We’re good, kid.”

 

“Good.” He then stood, brushing the snow off the back of his pants. “C’mon. Scotty whipped up a pretty good dinner.”

 

One down, two to go.

 

As the two of them retreated back into the bunker, he hoped Spock had already spoken with Uhura and Chekov. Chekov was easier to deal with than Uhura. That woman was as feisty as the first time they’d met in that bar at Rhode Island. Then again, Spock was tough and Uhura got a crush on him, so maybe she’d be calmer.

 

Sulu, Jim knew, would listen to him. The Asian might be emotionally frugal on the outside, but Sulu was the kind of person who’d hide behind a smile and laughter. So before the man exploded as he did during the survey, Jim had just to coax him to de-stress. Maybe Sulu could teach him a thing or two about fencing, or knife throwing.

 

As for Scotty, he couldn’t really just tell him to stop being so cheerful. He liked Scotty, but the rumors had just got to _stop_ , and he had a suspicion that the Scotsman was the one who started it. _That’s what happens when he gets bored_ , absently thought Jim.

 

“Jim,” McCoy suddenly called, “I’ve just got to ask --- just out of curiosity.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Are you and that overgrown elf really fucking?”

 

He swatted McCoy’s arm. “I’m not that desperate, Bones. Besides, we play chess most of the time.”

 

“Really,” intoned McCoy mischievously. “Is that what they call it these days?”

 

“They’re just rumors,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You should worry about the buzz circulating about you.”

 

McCoy stopped and turned, eyes narrowed. “What’s it about?”

 

Jim grinned, showing his teeth. “That you and Uhura are having a… an _epic romance_.”

 

Stomping quickly, McCoy tore the door open and bellowed, “Where the hell is that leprechaun?!”

 

“Bones, he’s from Scotland,” reminded Jim to Bones’ back.

 

With a laugh, he watched his friend hunt for Scotty and since the bunker was as large as a mouse hole, he knew Bones would find him in no time. Scotty better hide --- McCoy could be scary when he wanted to be.

 

Jim then vaguely looked at the sun, noting the light had gone dimmer than normal.

 

 

***

 

 _ Attention all sites. _

_ This is an emergency broadcast from Narada. _

_ A freak storm is about to make landfall in Edge Island. _

_ Advice sites to close trenches. _

_ Travel is banned. _

_ Remain in your camps until further notice.  _

 

“Everybody off your ass!” Uhura hollered through the bunker. She pounded frantically on each doors as she moved towards Spock and Scott’s room. “C’mon, people! Wake the fuck up! This is an emergency!”

 

She accidentally hit Spock on the face when the door suddenly opened, but she didn’t care. “Huge freak storm! Here!” she shrieked at him.

 

“Now?” confirmed Spock with a frown, to which Uhura nodded.

 

“Move!” Scott bellowed from the quarters.

 

The team was instantly on high alert, jumping in a flurry. The bridge had become the ground zero of a gadget bomb --- instruments and cables littered all surfaces.

 

“I have the transponders. We can go,” announced Spock, grabbing the tripod. Although transponders were always part of the field gear, he hadn’t anticipated needing it. They were stored in one of the many crates of unused equipment and had been difficult to locate.

 

“Chekov, get the satellite dish off the roof,” Sulu hollered towards the kitchen, where Chekov was filling up plastic jugs with water. “Uhura, change with Chekov!”

 

“Later!” She was already running outside with Scott.

 

“Aye!” Chekov yelled back behind him, as Sulu, with the total station, dashed out the door with Spock.

 

“Christ, this is heavy,” commented McCoy as he and Jim carried a big roll of tarps from the supplies room.

 

As they got outside, Uhura and Scott had emptied the sled of all other gears to make room for the tarps. After Bones and Jim deposited themselves atop the tarp on the sled, Scott started the snowmobile’s engine. “Start boarding up the windows with Chekov,” was Scott’s last words to Uhura before driving away.

 

When the snowmobile arrived at the site, the wind was threatening to unpeg the tents on its own. Spock and Sulu set up the total station at the DP, working out the details of their task in quick calculations. As soon as Sulu had declared that the coordinates had been taken, Jim and McCoy began removing the pegs of the tent, with Scott layering the tarp on the bottom of the trench and a bigger one pegged securely on top of it.

 

“Trench One is good!” Scott bellowed.

 

Trench 3 was a challenge to close. The transponder refused to register with the total station. Sulu blamed it on interference from the storm; McCoy blamed it on technology. For Trench 2, Spock set up the total station right at the very edge of the trench’s north wall. Under normal circumstances, Spock would never set such a heavy equipment so close to the walls, but Sulu had warned him that it was either that or draw an estimate of Trench 2’s location based on the transponders within the other two trenches. Prioritizing accuracy, Spock opted for the dangerous.

 

The winds were brewing up its speed, and for the first time, the site was engulfed in almost total darkness. Lightning and thunder roared and boomed threateningly above them like Thor had waged war against the Frost Giants!

 

“Hold it tight, Scotty! It’s going to whip your face right off,” warned Jim at the west peg.

 

“Don’t unpeg. Spock’s gone down,” reminded Sulu. Jim and Scott each held an unpegged tent’s flap that was trying stubbornly to set itself free.

 

As McCoy walked over with the tarps, the total station pinged its successful reading. “Trench two’s good,” Sulu whooped.

 

But their good luck had just run out. The flap had finally defeated Scott, sending him sprawling to the ground on his ass. Jim pulled the tent back, and failed. Instead, the flailing flap went for the total station, the sharp metal peg just missing Spock by centimeters. It did, however, successfully knocked out one of the tripod’s legs. The five of them watched in horror as the total station tipped forwards, top first, into the trench.

 

“Noooooo,” Sulu cried and would have gone down with the total station, if McCoy hadn’t grabbed him by the collar of his windbreaker.

 

The total station plunged into the ice with a definite crash. Like a dark symphony, the crash was followed by the sharp crackling of breaking ice, accompanied by a series of small explosions as the frozen layer gave way like there had been nothing underneath it. The total station broke through the last of the ice layer, and plunged into the abyss below.

 

Sulu fell down on his knees, held out his hands and cursed the heavens with his heavy, broken heart. “Our total station just got totaled!”

 

“Get that tent under control,” howled McCoy. He bent down and peered at the bottom of the trench. The three-by-one meter trench now had a hole in its west quadrant, which wasn’t exactly the fault of the fallen total station. Planks were now recognizable underneath the thin layer of ice and ended just before the west quadrant. McCoy looked over to where Spock was kneeling, unmoving. “Don’t tell me you missed that!”

 

“I guess our secret’s out,” Jim shrugged carelessly.

 

Out of nowhere, the desperate Asian archaeologist jumped into the trench amidst protests from the rest of the team. Sulu disappeared down the cavity left by his beloved total station.

 

“How are we goin’ ta’ get you back up?!” said Scotty exasperatedly, grabbing three glow sticks from inside his jacket, and throwing it down to Sulu.

 

“Sulu’s a ninja,” argued Jim. “He can take care of himself.”

 

McCoy whacked him on the back of his head for his cheekiness.

 

“Gentlemen,” warned Spock, “I suggest you both---”

 

“You guys have _got_ to _see_ this!” Sulu’s voice resonated from the darkness.

 

Spock moved closer to the edge and looked down. “What do you see?”

 

“Artifacts!” yelled Sulu back. “Burial goods! Bronze, iron, copper… everything!” His excitement was catching. “And an in-situ burial… on a metal boat… complete with weapons!” Sulu wasn’t the only one who was getting excited by the discovery. It was as though they wanted to dive through the hole as well.

 

“There’s a symbol!” added Sulu. “It’s everywhere!”

 

“What does it look like?” Spock asked, with the others looking at him in disbelief. The three men wanted Sulu to spend less time down there and get the hell back up.

 

“It’s pointy… lots of pointy things…” Sulu answered, unsure. “It’s like lightning. But that can’t be. It’s under a mountain… A bunch of lightning under a fucking mountain! Who the hell does that?”

 

Totally transfixed by Sulu’s voice, Spock and Jim simultaneously replied, “Lightning storm in ice.”

 

*****


	7. Interlude

  


 

The sky ruptured in electric veins --- silvery strands against obsidian as the winds whistled its foreboding tune. The icy mountains stood in a standstill, waiting --- waiting to witness what was to pass. It was coming; _the storm was coming_.

 

His body vibrated with cold, trails of shivers crawling from his nape to his socked, booted toes. He tucked his thick coat tightly around himself, even though he knew what little to none it could do to for him. One thing was certain… this was where he was going to die.

 

It was a noble death, all things considering.

 

The House of Atreides, like all noble houses, had had its ups and down in its long history, which could be traced back to as far as the early 12th century CE. It was built by stones of hardships and violence, fortified by sweat and blood, and upheld by ambition and power. Influential and manipulative, the Atreides family was legendary for orchestrating behind the scenes of almost all major events that had occurred in Europe for the past centuries, and infamous for their brutality to those who dared clashed with them.

 

That was before the turn of the 20thcentury, for the greatest downfall that brought the House to the brink of society’s hierarchy with one Hjalmar Evard Stolpe.

 

That man was the utmost shame of the family, worst than Anathasi Vladimir Stolpe, who had equally painted the House with both guilty and innocent blood. Private records showed Hjalmar to be an eccentric and bull-headed, but a genius nonetheless. His academic and scholastic works were considered superior to his competitions and peers. But when he’d discovered a cipher and shared its transcription to the antiquarian society, he was accused of forging the said manuscript. Refusing to prove its authenticity, he was branded as a fraud, his earlier works questioned to the point of losing his credibility.

 

In 1905, Hjalmar procured a pistol and shot himself through the mouth. The name of the House of Atreides was forever more tainted with humiliation.

 

As the current patriarch of the House of Atreides, it was his duty to rectify those mistakes, as would be his successor’s, who he missed terribly. The boy was only to turn three this year, after all.

 

He squinted through his goggles as he watched the vast tundra, lightning marring the sky with ugly scars once more. As the broken succession of flickers throb, he could almost see himself back to the welcoming warmth of his personal library, where the lights would do the same, especially during the bulbs’ early installment. And like the mute sanctuary of his haven, where the silence could readily be shattered by the cracks of the wood in the burning hearth, thunders then drummed in an ominous rumble of non-metric thumps.

 

 _ Yes, ominous indeed. _

 

He returned his attention to the tent behind him. The shelter itself wasn’t with much space, though it housed most of the findings they had unearthed and recovered. Excavating through permafrost was indeed not a simple task, as further proven when this project had begun nine weeks prior.

 

The dig, not too far from where he was, was an array of square shafts --- Wheeler-box grid as it was called, albeit in a single line. It would only take a dustfall, one powerful glacial storm to bury the whole excavation. The days of their hard labors would all be for nothing if that were to occur.

 

With trembling hand --- from the cold and not of fright, he pulled his recorder from his pant’s pocket, relief and grateful that it hadn’t frozen. It contained his last cassette tape, he suddenly realized. Hopefully, there should be enough space for him to record his last --- no, perhaps two or three more short entries would--- _should_ fit it.

 

He pushed the record button, and began:

 

 _ “Eighteenth October of the year nineteen eighty-seven. _

__

_ Two hours past, the team has received news of an on-coming glacial storm. Reports indicate that it was to arrive faster than predicted. And thus, after considering the risk of the dangers the storm would bring, it was decided to abandon the site - evacuate the team members, together with the artefacts and records immediately to ensure safety. _

__

_ Though myself and G have agreed to---” _

 

The old man doubled over as continuous fits of coughing consumed his body. His glove was stained with blood.

 

“Sir,” called a member of the team, surfacing from the interior of the tent. Her voice was dampened by the muffler around her neck and the fur-collar of her grey coat. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yes, I am fine,” he answered, sending the girl on her way.

 

But she would not let the matter sit. She lifted the old man off his knees and dragged him into an adjacent tent.

 

Noise, clatters, thuds and chaos were what greeted him as soon as he entered the tent. It was a bit warmer, not that it discontinued his mild quivering, but it was a great improvement. He counted three persons, pacing and moving about, four huddled and crouched together in the far corner, busy rearranging the contents of the crates --- their eyes roved swift that he could picture the wheels of their minds at work, and the remaining random faces who came and went in and out of the shelter.

 

The girl set him down on a vacant stool and handed him a water bottle. He gratefully took a sip. She gave him a look of concern, to which he met with a grimace. She gave a short nod and made herself busy.

 

As a man who had lived more than half a century, he could not just stand majority of the younger generation. They were rude, stubborn and think too highly of themselves that they believed they need not the guidance and wisdom of those more experienced in life than they were.

 

But this group of promising youths, they were tad different from those he’d encountered before; granted that when stress got to their system, they became quick-tempered and impatient. Still, G’s students were good, determined and dedicated to their vocations. Efficient, intelligent and pragmatic, too. They could be counted on; they could be entrusted with what he and G had worked on.

 

This train of assessment brought him back to his successor. He could envision the boy, all grown up and doing exactly what the students were now doing. That child possessed innate potential to achieve great things, far greater than any of members of their House had and would ever accomplish. He saw it the moment he gazed upon the earthly pools of the newborn babe, and he absolutely believed it.

 

He truthfully wished he’d see the day his successor would rise to the top of the world. Now that would be a sight.

 

“Then, where the fucking hell is she?” screeched ---what was his name again?--- ah, Johnson. “She’s got the bloody list!”

 

“I know that!” snapped Hail. “But we’ve got no time to look for her. Stop yapping and just look for it!”

 

“I’m gonna gauge Michelle’s eyes out and mail it to her mum,” Johnson promised, flurrying around in frantic search.

 

His eyes moved around, then he calmly made his way over the small table situated to his far left, swiping the sheets of paper on its surface before presenting it to them. “Is this what you are looking for?”

 

Both froze at his sudden interjection, silence falling within the tent as he detected the others had suspended their movements. It appeared that he’d done it again. This almost always transpired whenever he spoke or remarked something off hand. After all these weeks, they were still uncomfortable around him. Oh no, he would never hold it against them; his father had had times remarked that he had an air of authority permanently wrapped around his person that made people wary of him.

 

 _ Except G, of course _ , he chuckled inwardly. That man was another matter entirely.

 

Raising an elegant eyebrow, he wiggled the papers in a silent urge before Hail slowly and carefully took the list from his grasp. “Thank you, sir.”

 

“Ta, sir,” said Johnson, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

 

“Make haste. There is not much time.”

 

As the buzz of activities resumed, he slipped out of the tent and into the cold. Digging his spiked boots into the snow, he marched not too far towards another tent. This one though, was larger --- in fact, it was the largest amongst the others.

 

He was surprised when he found that the interior of the tent was not empty, as he had expected.

 

There, crouched within the trench, was a young woman in her bulky yellow winter coat and orange tuque with her goggles resting over her head, seemingly jotting with great speed and proficiency, neck moving back and forth from the ground to the paper in random interval; her mouth held a small torch to aid her vision due the poor lighting. No wonder he hadn’t seen her since the announcement for an evacuation was relayed, she had been here all along. Curious, he made his way towards her, not bothering to mask his approach.

 

She continued writing, even though he knew she was aware of his presence. Morgan was perceptive like that.

 

“You are supposed to be packing, were you not?” he asked, placing his hands on the small of his back as he looked down from the edge of the dig box.

 

Not even giving him a quick glance, she answered, “Already done, sir.”

 

“Then, what are you doing? Here, especially.”

 

“Finishing the records,” was her brief response; something in her tone left the word ‘obviously’ unsaid.

 

More known as Number One amongst her colleagues and close peers, Ilyria Morgan was G’s top student and only protégée. Though that last bit might not be true at this time, there was no confirmation as of the accuracy of that rumor yet. And he actually liked Morgan. The young woman’s dedication was unparalleled by her age group, even matching his and G’s level. Which more likely the reason G took her as an apprentice and chose her to be his second-in-command, so to speak, in this project. Not to mention that in her age, she was already recognized in the academe for her expertise in her specialization.

 

Studying her hands in motion, he could not help but frown, and worry. “Where are your gloves?”

 

Nothing but the sounds of her scribbling and frequency buzz of the three light bulbs within the tent was heard in a long stretch. And then, “Pockets.”

 

“Miss Morgan---”

 

“Done.” Gathering her tools from her lap, Morgan straightened, lifted her chin and looked at him straight in the eyes. Her irritation was evident. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

 

“Pardon me, Miss Morgan,” he calmly stated, “I know not what you refer to.”

 

“Don’t be daft,” came a retort.

 

Always so forthright with her opinions, he mused to himself, not offended in the slightest by her behavior towards him.

 

Her eyes hardened to a glare. “You’re the reason the professor decided to stay, instead of going to the outpost with everyone.”

 

“Ah, my dear girl,” he said in condescension, “that decision was mutual.”

 

“I don’t believe you.” She climbed up and stood before him on the same ground. “I understand Professor’s reluctance to leave the site unprotected, but to deliberately want to be left behind and subject himself to danger such as this is not something he’d do unless there is a good reason for it.”

 

He slightly tilted his head, his motion for feigned innocence. “What are you insinuating, Miss Morgan?”

 

“I’m not insinuating anything,” declared Morgan vehemently. “I’m saying that there is another reason that you both opted to remain here. We could have just covered the trenches with sheeting to keep it safe. Even if the storm were to bury them, we could easily find them again. The tents all over the site are enough indications of its locations.”

 

She indeed was perceptive; he could hear G’s laughing voice in his head. He smiled softly and said, “Perhaps, Miss Morgan. I am afraid you have to ask G directly regarding your… issue with our decision.”

 

“I already have,” huffed Morgan, before she shoved the papers and pencils into her knapsack, then zipping it close.

 

“And?”  
  


She strapped her bag securely on her back. “He didn’t give me an answer.”

 

“Ah,” he expressed neutrally.

 

“He just smiled with that annoying careless smile of his, which he gives whenever he doesn’t want anyone to worry,” Morgan’s hands were gesturing wildly in contained exasperation as she continued, “Or when he’s playing a joke on some poor sod. I don’t know!” She grumbled, appearing to calm a tad down and then softly, “I’m never good with deciphering his facial expressions. His smile just confuses people.”

 

His lips twitched as he chuckled lightly. “That is true. I have known him for approximately six months, been in his constant company these past nine weeks and he still surprises me.”

 

Morgan released a snort. “I’ve been under his tutelage for _six_ years and even _I_ still don’t know him that well.”

 

“I believe G likes to maintain parts of himself as a mystery, even to those he considers as friends.”

 

“Yeah, well, that’s him,” concluded Morgan with a shrug. Then she slightly twisted her body, posture suggesting she was about to leave. “I better check on the others and see if they’re done.”

 

Just as Morgan moved the flap of the entrance to the side, he called to her. “Before you leave, Miss Morgan, might you do me a personal favor?” As she looked at him with confusion, he unfastened the small bag had always been with him and presented it to her like an offering. “Please take this with you and have it delivered to my family as soon as possible.”

 

She frowned, but nonetheless accepted the bag, albeit hesitantly. “What’s this?”

 

He did not miss a beat. “My life’s work.” Morgan’s eyes instantly widened. “And I am entrusting you to ensure that my family receives it.”

 

“Why?” she whispered, dumbfound and curious. “Why me?”

 

“Easy, my dear girl,” he quietly laughed, “G trusts you, as do I. Consider this favor as a request from an old man who misses his family and longs for a good warm rest on a soft mattress.”

 

It didn’t take even a minute for Morgan to surrender with a sigh. “All right. I’ll make sure your family gets this. I promise.”

 

The ‘old man’ card really did always work, even to someone as rational as Number One. “Thank you.”He gestured a hand towards the exit and followed Morgan out of the tent.

 

“Just to remind you, sir,” she suddenly said, turning around to face him; he raised an eyebrow, “when I see you again, you’ll be the one to take this back to your family. I’ll hold on to this for the time being. Take care of Professor for us.”

 

He couldn’t suppress a blithe laugh as he watched Morgan tramped over the direction of the storage tent. He did not miss the cheery smirk the young woman gave him before she waved him goodbye. G was in his right mind when he accepted her as an apprentice.

 

And speaking of her mentor, he still had to remind him of something before the team was to depart. G might be brilliant, but he was a bit forgetful when it came to matters that were not part of his research. Just simple things like shaving every three days, or combing his hair in the morning. He wanted to make certain that G had not forgotten a very crucial matter. When he became G’s pseudo-minder, he did not know. All he was aware of that he cared enough for the man to watch over him.

 

With resignation, he took the fastest route to G’s tent quarters, which they shared--- mainly for reasons of the nature of the project and practicality itself. Many of the team members shared sleeping areas, given that the shelters provided for them were large thermal-tents where one could walk, stand and move about. And it wasn’t wise to have made each member brought his or her own portable refuge. It was difficult enough to stay in a permanently cold location for three or four months, let alone cause them to carry extra load when he could provide a solution to that --- which he had; thus, the arrangement.

 

Few zigzags more between the tent domes and he finally saw their quarters, prompting him to hurry his steps. Then, he stopped, just outside the tent, less than a meter from the entrance.

 

G was not alone.

 

Not that there was something wrong with that. The man was rarely alone in the duration of their stay here, but what he couldn’t believe was the anger in the voice he was hearing.

 

Before the project had pushed through, he needed a man of intelligence, good work ethic, had expertise on the matter, and one whom he could trust. That long search had led him to G, who was then in London, taking time off his work. Their meeting had been serendipitous; he dared not call it coincidence, or even place it on destiny’s list.

 

Of all places, it had to be the British Museum, a wondrous place to behold, where marvels of the world were gathered to be displayed for the curious eyes of the public to see. He had just finished speaking with the museum’s director, and much to his disappointment, it had not gone well. As his gaze remained unseeing upon the remnants of a burial vessel within the glass before him, his resolve started to waver. It would be very easy for him to accomplish what he wished to. Yet, to do so would further tar his family’s already tainted name. There had to be a way!

 

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

 

His vision reduced its blur, once again on the weathering, black ribs of the ruined ship. He hummed as an acknowledgement of the stranger’s remark.

 

Footfalls echoed across the hall and stopped; the stranger stood by his side. “Found in 1939 in Suffolk, the ship is twenty-seven metres long and four metres wide at its widest spot. It was sailed upriver and then dragged overland and then into a pit dig at the burial spot, before covered with a large mound of soil.”

 

That piqued his interest, making his head turn. The stranger was a young man, tall, blonde and had striking blue eyes, which glowed impossibly bright against the hall’s lights.

 

The blonde continued, “It had elaborate goods: coins, weapons and armor. Too bad all the organic goods had disintegrated in the acidic soil. I bet she was more beautiful in the prime of her glory. This replica doesn’t do her any justice.”

 

“Indeed,” he agreed, too soft even to his own ears. “I’m certain King Raeldwald is most pleased. In the afterlife.”

 

A snort, “You know your history.”

 

“And you know your ships,” was his response. The blonde flashed him a wide grin. “Tell me,” he began, licking his lips, “Are you a researcher of this facility? Or simply a man who is particularly interested in ships?”

 

“Nah. I’m just a tourist,” the blonde said, and they both knew that wasn’t entirely true. “But I like my ships.”

 

He found himself smiling, “Perhaps I could interest you more.”

 

The man’s brow creases, but his smile didn’t disappear. “I don’t like antiquarians or private collectors, Mister.”

 

“I am neither,” he said, an eyebrow raised with intrigue.

 

“Your signet says otherwise,” countered the blonde, which impressed him. Observant, this one. “And I can’t be bought.”

 

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I didn’t expect you to be. Do you know who I am?”

 

“I don’t need to,” the man replied confidently. “I just know your type.”

 

“And you don’t like my type,” he said, amused and a bit surprised at the flow of their conversation. He certainly was _not_ flirting with the man.

 

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who thought that because the young man laughed and said, “There’s something very wrong with that sentence. Still, whatever it is you’re offering me, my answer is no.”

 

“The Gift of the Gods,” he suddenly said, and he knew he caught the man’s attention, “I may have found the clue of its location.”

 

There was a slight tightening of the man’s jaw yet his tone remained jovial, despite the obvious defensive stance. “Like I said, I can’t be bought.”

 

“Yes,” he agreed with a nod, before returning his gaze on the display. “And I’m not trying or going to.”

 

The silence between them stretched and as the clock continued to tic, he was afraid that the man would just leave without saying a word.

 

He was wrong.

 

Much later, they found themselves inside a pub, sitting at the far corner, having a civil conversation over pints. He himself was not fond of lagers, nor pubs, but he’d allowed the blonde to choose the place, so he couldn’t really complain.

 

“So,” the man began, sprawling himself comfortably on his seat; they haven’t even exchanged names yet. “What about the Gift of the Gods? It’s a myth amongst antiquarians, treasure hunters, grave robbers - _those people_. Anthropologists and archaeologists see it as a fairytale.”

 

Straight to the point, he liked this man. “Then you are familiar with Sturluson’s manuscript.”

 

The blonde dragged his mug to his mouth, gulping the liquid, and as he set the glass down, he licked the froth between his lips and mouth with the flick of his tongue. “That’s a fake document, forged by Hjalmar Stolpe.”

 

He did not say a word. Instead, he slowly opened the briefcase beside him, and then placed sheets of parchments neatly secured by a thin, organic rope between them on the table. Judging by the man’s measured straightening posture, he had gotten him hooked.

 

“That can’t be---”

 

With a nod of his head, he permitted him to examine the manuscript.

 

Then, “Why do you have this? From what I’ve read, Stolpe couldn’t produce evidence of Sturluson’s work. What he had then was a transcription.”

 

He shrugged nonchalantly. “My great uncle was a selfish man,” he explained. “He did not want anyone to have the original copies, and thus submitted replicated verses. Hjalmar was unable to foresee the consequences it would bring upon himself when he did that.”

 

“This is just---”

 

“You may borrow it,” he interrupted, in complete seriousness, placing a manila envelope on top of the parchments. “I’m lending it to you, and I’m giving you three days to decide.”

 

The man blinked, “Three days to decide what, exactly?”

 

“To lead an excavation.”

 

A shiver ran down his spine and he was brought back to the present, finding the wind much colder than earlier. By now, G was talking patiently. He stood to the side as he waited for the conversation to finish.

 

“I’m not leaving!” exclaimed a familiar voice within the tent. “No man left behind. It’s how an excavation runs.”

 

“Look,” G sounded exasperated. “We’ve been going around in circles since we’ve started. I’m staying and you’re going with the others, and that’s final.”

 

“It’s too dangerous for you to stay!”

 

“Christopher,” sighed G. “This is not up for debate. Pack your gear and go. The trucks are leaving soon.”

 

“But---”

 

That was then when he pushed the flap aside and made his presence known to the two men. G looked unsurprised, but the other man --- Pike, was it? --- jumped a little when he saw him.

 

“Prime,” greeted G with a nod, which confirmed that he had known for some time that he had been eavesdropping. “Christopher was just leaving.”

 

“Ah,” Prime expressed, with pretense. “Then perhaps you could ask him to relay a message to your wife and child?”

 

The stiffening of Pike’s shoulders did not go unnoticed to Prime, but appeared to have to G.

 

“Oh, right. Thanks for reminding me.” G walked over the table and grabbed his field journal, handing it to his student. “I’m entrusting this to you, Chris. Take care of it.”

 

With great reluctance, Pike accepted the journal. “Will that be all, _sir_?” he asked through gritted teeth.

 

G softly smiled, sad and accepting. “Tell Winona to call him Jim, and _not_ Tiberius --- that name is just too weird.”

 

The eyes that watched G were glassy and pleading that Prime took mercy on him. “You better go, young man. By now, Miss Morgan would be searching for you.”

 

One last glance at G and not a word, Pike stalked passed Prime, hurt and pain evident on his face.

 

G let out a breath and dragged himself few steps towards his bed before falling on it with a loud thud. “Sorry you had to see that.”

 

Prime silently walked towards the table and poured them both a cup of warm coffee and a bit of whiskey. Then, he handed one to G, who muttered his thanks; he remained where he stood. “I heard parts of it, too.”

 

G chuckled, sardonic. “Yeah, well, not my fault you chose to listen.” He glanced up to him, lips twitched to a half-smile. “How was the preparation?”

 

“Smooth,” said Prime. “Except some artefacts have to be left behind.” Angling his head, he asked, “Will you not see them off?”

 

“Nah,” G said as he took a sip, “Already spoke to them earlier. Ilyria is in-charge of them. She knows what to do when they get to the outpost.”

 

Prime could not help snorting, as much as how undignified it was. “Ah, yes, your Number One. Would that make Pike your Number Two?” It was a low blow, he knew, yet Prime was unable to rein himself in.

 

“You know then.” A statement, not a question but a verification. Then, he groaned. “What the hell was I thinking?”

 

Prime raised an eyebrow, took a sip of his coffee and delivered his judgment, “Because you’re an idiot.”

 

G laughed, loud and mad, yet it seemed to have released some of the tension he was feeling. “Too late for that.” Somberly, he asked, “How did you know?”

 

“Really, I am insulted, G.” Prime grabbed a chair. “Like you told me before: nothing remains surreptitious in the field.”

 

The sound of laughter filled the room once again, only to abruptly stop when they both heard the rumble of engines and the sounds of the vehicles driving away. They were on their own now.

 

“They’re gone,” whispered G, cradling the mug between his fingers.

 

“They are,” Prime reaffirmed.

 

Raising his mug towards Prime, G lightly asked, “How about a toast?”

 

“To perhaps the last night of our lives?”

 

“To perhaps the last night of our lives.”

 

Their mugs clinked and the thunders roared.

 

*****


	8. Chapter Six

  


  


  


   


Spock winced as the back of his head hit the metal wall, his groan swallowed by Kirk’s mouth moving against his. In retaliation, Spock bit the man’s lower lip, sucking hard. He was rewarded with a shivering moan and an increase of the man’s body heat.

 

With the storm raging its fury on the island for the past three days, he had been stuck in a small shelter with the tensed Enterprise, whose members were more than highly stressed. Spock was used to the machinations of field excavations; the behavior of the team had to be expected, though he disapproved of his colleagues’ coping mechanisms.

 

Dr. Uhura had locked herself in her room on the first day, leaving only for food and personal business; Dr Sulu had spread his knife collection on the long table on the bridge and had polished its blades delicately. Spock would have confiscated the dangerous weapons, however he considered that it would be detrimental to the Asian’s psyche if he did. Mr. Chekov, Mr. Scott and Dr. McCoy had engaged themselves in a seemingly endless drinking of vodka, scotch and bourbon, respectively. In the least, the three men didn’t generate disruption throughout their merriment, even in their drunken states. Dr. Kirk, on the other hand, had spent his time with Spock, playing chess in the Artefact Management Room, while they engaged in intellectual disputes. Yet, there could only so much chess they could play that the two of them had eventually retreated in their separate temporary refuge, tending to their own business.

 

Fortunately, his colleagues moods changed as the days passed. Now that the storm had significantly weakened, Spock seized the opportunity to wash himself in the showers. He braved the short distance between the bunker and the outhouse, which wasn’t that far, even with the cold winds still whistling soundly.

 

The first contact of the hot water on him was a delight. The old heating system installed in the bunker was nothing compared to the hot water on his cold skin, and Spock took his time in cleansing himself for as long as he could. Clean and done, Spock wrapped his towel around his waist and stepped out of the stall…

 

… only to meet Dr. Kirk’s widening eyes.

 

“Hey,” Kirk whispered, bringing Spock out of his thoughts. “You drifted.” He was breathing heavily, those blue eyes boring into his core as Kirk maintained the short distance of space in between their faces. “Not good?”

 

Spock did not hesitate to pull Kirk’s head, kissing him fervently, their tongues tangling together in a heated dance. Perhaps he needed this, both of them did.

 

Kirk’s hands came to cup his jaw, one thumb caressing his cheek as he tilted Spock’s head to deepen the angle, their bodies arching into each other. The kiss moved towards his ears. Spock shuddered when Kirk nipped and sucked his earlobe, before advancing to his neck, trailing wet, hard kisses. Once again, Spock pulled Kirk to him, pressing their bodies and mouths together as his hands unbuckled Kirk’s trousers, tearing the zipper open.

 

As soon as his hands freed the infernal constraints, Spock grabbed Kirk’s shoulders and _spun_ , reversing their positions. The towel fell onto the floor around his ankles without his notice. His knees immediately followed, dragging down his hooked fingers in the loop of both Kirk’s trousers and underpants with him. Without pause, he wrapped his lips around the throbbing cock, taking the lead.

 

Kirk moaned at the contact, which turned into a whimper when Spock licked the slit. He took his time, taking great pleasure in lapping his tongue around the head, playing with the man’s sacs… cupping, squeezing and pinching, before Spock swallowed him whole.

 

“Ah… fuck…,” Kirk groaned, his whole body shaking. Kirk’s trembling hands were on Spock’s head, guiding. In the heat, Kirk’s hips began to surge back and forth, pushing his cock deeper into Spock’s throat.

 

Spock firmly planted his palm on Kirk’s abdomen to prevent him from jerking forward as he sucked harder and trailed his tongue along the length of Kirk’s member. He kissed the base of the cock, tugging the loose skin between his teeth while he pumped him.

 

Suddenly, Kirk seized his shoulders and pushed him down the concrete floor, crawling before meeting his mouth in an obscenely filthy kiss. When they broke away for air, their gazes locked, Kirk’s hungry eyes searching. Spock couldn’t help raising an eyebrow, which made the other man chuckle.

 

They kissed once again, long and dirty. Kirk broke free and traced Spock’s neck with hot, swollen lips, down to his chest. A tongue lapped his nipple while a hand slowly slid down his torso, caressing his abdomen before moving further down to stroke his weeping, inflamed cock; Spock’s back arched at the touch. Then, Kirk’s mouth replaced the hand around his member and Spock moaned in pleasure.

 

Spock watched, transfixed as Kirk skillfully massaged his cock with that sinful mouth, teeth grazing the length in random intervals like a starved man. When the head of his cock scraped Kirk’s upper palate, Spock shuddered and unable to stop himself, pushed Kirk’s head down. He whimpered at the warmth of that mouth enveloping his aching cock.

 

Then, Kirk pulled away with a loud pop and pushed two fingers into his mouth. Spock immediately knew what he intended to do. He caught Kirk’s hand, and sucked on the fingers hungrily, showing Kirk _exactly_ what he planned to do to him next time. Kirk watched him and the growl that followed was most gratifying.

 

The man wrenched his fingers out and lifted Spock’s hips so swiftly that when a wet, smooth tongue licked his hole, Spock was wholly caught by surprise. Kirk spread his arse’s cheeks and continued with his assault, pushing the tip of his tongue into the hole.

 

Unhygienic as it was, Spock was far from caring. He wanted Kirk, and he was aching to get fucked.

 

A feathery touch encircled the periphery of his hole before it slowly drove inside. Spock let out a hiss at the foreign intrusion, and then whimpered when it slid in and out. Another finger joined in shortly after, curling inside him. Kirk followed it with a third. Spock’s mind spiraled into swirling dizziness when the fingers made contact with his prostate. A little more, and he’d cum without being touched.

 

“Stop teasing,” hissed Spock impatiently.

 

Kirk smirked, but obliged at his command. The fingers twisted inside for a last time before it left him entirely. Kirk arranged himself between Spock’s legs. When the tip of Kirk’s hard cock probed his opening, Spock wanted to sit up and just put it in himself. Then, without warning, Kirk thrust himself forward. _All in_.

 

Spock screamed.

 

Kirk leaned in, threading his fingers through Spock’s hair and kissing his forehead in a silent apology; Spock tightly crushed his eyes shut.

 

“Ready,” Kirk asked. With a lick of his lips, Spock nodded. Kirk _moved_. In --- in --- in, a gentle, slow rhythm.

 

That didn’t last as Kirk increased his pace, driving faster and faster and faster --- his nails digging into Spock’s hips. Spock found himself meeting every thrust with equal fervor, his own fingers on curling to fists, his head thrashing as Kirk hit his prostate at _every_ fast, hardpush. When Kirk wrapped his fingers around his neglected cock, Spock was driven to the edge.

 

He came, his cock shooting out cum into his stomach as his body quivered at the release. A few more hard, selfish thrusts and Kirk followed, emptying himself into Spock, which sent an electrifying thrill up Spock’s spine.

 

Kirk fell shortly after onto his heaving chest, breathing as heavily as he was.

 

“Fuck,” Kirk rasped, “That was--- that…”

 

Spock gently placed his hand on the other man’s head and slowly stroked Kirk’s hair.

 

  


***

 

Thunder still marvelously roared its majesty over Thief Fjord. The boards on the windows clattered in their own tempo, which was far too fast for McCoy’s liking. They’d been serenaded by the rattling, banging and the occasional smashing for almost three days now. He tried to drown out his intensifying headache with bourbon.

 

The kitchen’s booze cupboard still had two full bottles of his favorite drink. Thank you, Mr. Scott! He expressed his gratitude by taking a swig of the newly opened bottle. As if on cue, Scott entered the kitchen and went for the cupboard as well. He then merrily took down a bottle of whiskey for himself.

 

“Don’t ye worry none ‘bout yer bourbon,” Scott slurred after a big gulp. “I’ll make sure to rememb’r getting yah a bottle or two when I go for the supply run.” With a wink, Scott moved to the other side of the kitchen counter.

 

“No need for that,” McCoy assured the quartermaster. “I’m going with you.”

 

Scott stopped in his tracks, shoulders tensed. He laughed uneasily, shaking his head. “Ye… goin’ with me, eh? That’s not going ta’ happen none.”

 

“The hell I’m not!” McCoy said, determined. “We need medical supplies. I tried giving you a list and you came back with nothing. We’ve almost run out after your first supply run and we’ll be needing more!”

 

“Ye think it’s easy getting supplies from Narada?!” said Scott with flourish. “It’s chaos out there with three other camps trying to get what you already called dibs on! No, McCoy. It’s best ye stay here and leave the quartering to good ol’ Scotty.” He pointed his thumb at himself for emphasis.

 

“I’m going with, that’s the end of it,” said Bones, glaring at the Scotsman. They were truly running low and Scott had not delivered apart from another pre-packed first-aid kit. Aside from his mistrust of Scott’s knowledge of anything medical, he wasn’t keen on getting left behind in Trench 3 with Spock watching over his shoulder. In truth, Scott had been vital to McCoy’s survival in the field as his one source sanity. Looking at Scott’s mismatched and multi-colored garb (like his heterochromatic eyes), complete with hunting cap, it sounded ludicrous. Sometimes, the insane could turn into the other’s sanity.

 

“It’s best and faster if I just go on my own, _Doctor_ McCoy,” bit Scott, serious. McCoy nearly flinched. Scott was barely ever stern.

 

But the doctor could match him with his own austerity. “You just have to live with me for half a day, _Mister_ Scott.”

 

The two most experienced archaeologists in the team faced-off silently. Each had their arms crossed over their chests, with a bottle of alcohol dangling in one of each of their hands. While the air sizzled with friction, Sulu broke through the kitchen. He looked at McCoy, and then at Scott. They both ignored Sulu, who could smell conflict from a while away. The Asian tip-toed around the two and he quietly retrieved his bottle of sake and quickly left.

 

 _  
Phew!   
_   
That was close! Sulu didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire. He had enough issues on his own end. Primarily, his issues involved the lack of power. The bunker lived on rechargeable lamps for light, the old heating system from the burners, and batteries --- lots of ‘em. He flopped down on his chair in front of the navigation table. Four lamps were on the desk, which he’d set up earlier to see the blue film he was working on. He couldn’t believe he was _manually_ working on it. Good thing he wasn’t behind on printing the total station’s readings. Sulu stretched his shoulder muscles in preparation for a long leg of calculations and drafting.

 

“Sulu!” whispered Uhura from behind, startling him. “Can you check the coordinates on my blue film? It’s my horizontal profile.”

 

“You have a one-by-one meter trench. How are you having a hard time?” whined Sulu with a slump. The woman had only had to work on _one_ trench while he had to draw a map of the whole site! _Manually!_ \--- without his beloved laptop!

 

Uhura head-slapped him with a roll of her eyes.

 

“Fine, fine.” Sulu took the offered blue film and put it under the light. His face contorted over the undecipherable writing. “What the… is this Aramaic?”

 

She leaned over and peered at the blue film. “No, that’s Chekov’s handwriting.”

 

“Someone has _got_ to tell that kid that we’re using Standard English for documentation,” complained Sulu, pulling out his Kindle where he’d stored several dictionaries.

 

“Gimme,” said Uhura, grabbing a seat, before taking the blue film and a pencil. In an instant, she proceeded to scribble translations underneath Chekov’s Russian notes.

 

“How’d you know Russian?” asked Sulu, visibly shocked.

 

“Chekov,” she shrugged, not looking at him. “I just picked it up.”

 

Sulu snorted, “That’s not the only thing you picked up.”

 

Uhura glared daggers at him. “What does that suppose to mean?”

 

Coming from a long line of samurai on his father’s side and a warrior class of _Pintados_ from his mother’s side, Sulu was never one to cower. “McCoy,” he grinned. “Ow!” Uhura had delivered another blow at the back of his head. Man, McCoy was right, she did have a good arm.

 

“We’re not into each other,” she clarified, focusing on the blue film once more. “I happen to be in love with someone else.”

 

“Oh, grow up!” said Sulu, with another roll of his eyes. “You’re always hanging out at the clinic. You even got plastered with the man’s bourbon, last night. Cut the bullshit, Uhura. Besides, I think the feelings are mutual.” He added a wink towards the end.

 

Although Uhura put up a front of disbelief, Sulu’s last line seemed to stir something that made her hand come up to his head. Again. Sulu hissed in pain.

 

“Sorry. Reflex,” she said, not apologetic at all.

 

Then, as though summoned, McCoy trudged his way to the bridge. He stopped behind them and scowled, perhaps in greeting. McCoy took Uhura’s arm and deposited two aspirin tablets on her open palm. Without a word, the doctor turned about and walked away.

 

Sulu’s grin was splitting his face in half. Oh, how he loved being right! When Uhura’s arm shot up, he was ready and was able to block the attack. He had a black belt in judo after all. Unfortunately, he had forgotten about Uhura’s other arm. “ _Ow!_ ”

 

  


***

 

After the emergency two nights ago, the team --- mostly Kirk and McCoy --- had left the equipment room in bedlam. Chekov took it upon himself to restore order. So, he rolled up his sleeves and proceeded to work. He even made a list. Mr. Scott would surely be pleased and proud of him!

 

Chekov pushed the organized crates to one side of the walls. _Padonok!_ he cursed silently as he miscalculated his strength, making the tower of crates lean dangerously into the other tower beside it; the series of crates wobbled unsteadily like giant jellies.

 

The sound of wood hitting the concrete floor then caught his hearing. As far as he could tell, they did not have wood, except for the firewood in the kitchen. He lifted the rechargeable lamp high above his head to increase the light distribution in the room. The metal shaft of the mysterious object glinted at him. Chekov had seen those before, of course. He was no stranger to that thing. Mostly those were high on the wall where small children could not reach it, or in the arms of his _Babushka_. It was an _Avtomat Kalashnikova_ , otherwise known as an AK-47.

 

But the surprise didn’t end there. Beside the fallen weapon was an anonymous crate covered with a heavy black tarp. Chekov lowered the lamp on the ground and whipped the tarp off it. As he suspected, the crate was stocked full of standard issue AK-47 and magazines. He got on his knees and picked up the weapon off the ground, letting his fingers brush on the fine wooden butt and cold metal shaft. Back home, it was a tradition to bequeath a weapon as a coming-of-age gift. Chekov had been taught that weapons demanded respect, as much as the hand that wielded it.

 

Gently, he returned the weapon back within the crate, which was hidden in the gloom behind the two crate towers. If Chekov hadn’t accidentally shaken those towers that sent one of the weapons to the ground, he wouldn’t have known that there was an empty space behind the it. Someone had taken great care in keeping this stash a secret.

 

Mr. Scott was clearly afraid. For the entire team, he thought, when he remembered the confrontation between Prof. Pike and Dr. Nero back in Oslo. It was though it had happened a lifetime ago.

 

Based on the amounts of weapons stored in their bunker, Mr. Scott was clearly prepared for the possibility of being ambushed. Chekov covered the weapons crate with the black tarp and walked purposely away. Mr. Scott was a good man, who Chekov admired greatly. The older man didn’t want to worry anyone with what he had seen, especially Chekov. But the feel of the gun in his hands reminded Chekov that he was a man, who had to stand up to fear. As a man and an archaeologist, he needed to protect the team, just like Mr. Scott.

 

A very clear idea of right and wrong formed in Chekov’s brilliant mind. The discovery if the lightning storm in ice symbol before the blizzard had set in meant that they were in greater peril than before. Jim had explained that the symbol signified that the boat burial they had exposed was part of a burial fleet, including one main boat that contained the Gift of the Gods. This was confirmed by Spock, who added that when King Ongentheow had died, the Gift of the Gods was speculated to have been buried with him as a grave good. According to Sulu, their boat burial had an immense amount of burial goods that would sell very well in the black market. Although treasure hunters remained unaware of their recent discovery, it would not take long before they would be put upon a situation that required the use of firearms, especially since Dr. Nero was the head of Narada. The team needed to be prepared.

 

Chekov found Mr. Scott in the kitchen, refilling his glass with scotch.

 

“Eh, laddie, ye need vodka?” Mr. Scott asked jovially. “Ye ought to take up as much of it. The storm seems to be dying down a bit. We’d be working full-time before ye know it!” Then, he frowned, slowly tilting his seat’s legs back on the floor. “Ye alright, lad?”

 

Chekov somberly nodded and sat across the man. “Mr. Scott,” he began nervously. “We need to tell the commander about Dr. Nero and Prof. Pike.”

 

Scott slowly drained his drink, hand shaking. “There’d be no need to for that. They know what they’re doing.”

 

“No, Mr. Scott,” insisted Chekov. “The team must _know_.”

 

“Listen ‘ere,” Scott leaned over the table conspiratorially. “You don’t want people living with this over their heads. They need to work fast, what with our finds.”

 

Chekov blinked and drew a long sigh. “I know about the _Kalashnikov_.”

 

Scott grimaced and threw his hunting cap on the table in frustration. “When it rains, it really pours. McCoy was in here earlier, demanding to be taken to Narada,” said Scott, shaking his head. “Now, you! Ye want ‘ta go ahead and tell everyone about… _things_.”

 

“If you will not tell them, then I will do it alone,” said Chekov, resolutely. “We are a team, _Scotty_. It is not fair to them that we are lying. You cannot protect them on your own. You cannot dig alone.”

 

Chekov was unsure whether what he was saying was going through Scott’s buzz-filled mind. But the quartermaster was looking thoughtful, almost like he was about to shed tears. Chekov was immediately sorry that he had risen against Scott’s wishes. But the Scotsman had been driven by memories of fallen comrades. That was noble but it was not going to help them survive. Scott should not continue to live in the past, when the future was looking treacherous. The quartermaster needed to live in the current weight of reality.

 

“Twenty-seven,” Scott finally said after a while.

 

“Sorry?” asked Chekov, puzzled.

 

“I have seen twenty-seven archaeologists shot down, all in one go,” shared Scott, digging out thoughts he had long buried. “In Tartessos… We--we knew that the director had gotten death threats. But it was goin’ to be stupid to try anything with all the media and the enthusiasts around. The night before we backfilled… t’was just one more day of in the field… They could have waited for us to go…”

 

Scott shook his head with trembling shoulders. In between sobbing, he continued, “They didn’t, those bloody bastards. They came in the night --- had us go down the biggest trench. And then… An’ then they lined us up, lad.” His voice choked.“All my friends, my quartermaster, my director, my artefact manager… Everyone!The director tried to tell ‘em. We got no gold. We don’t have treasure. We have broken jars, crumbled masonry… Nothing worth killin’ for.

 

Scott took a deep breath “They shot ‘im --- in the head. He fell to the ground and we followed him. They fired on us… lined up behind our director… There was screaming from the womenfolk… We dig as one. Ha!” He chuckled bitterly, sadly, madly. “We died as one. My quartermaster grabbed me behind him and we fell together. He was a good man;he died with his arms around me…Saved my life. There were twenty-eight people in the team. Twenty-four died when they fell. Three died in the hospital. One survived… Bollocks!”

 

Scott was completely consumed by his weeping. It was then Chekov realized that the story was over.

 

“You,” said Scott, wiping his face with his cap. “You go directly to Jim, lad. He’d be the one knowing what to do.”

 

Chekov was relieved that Scott had given him permission to do what he thought was right. But he was curious as to why Scott would think that Jim was a better person to talk to, instead of Spock. Perhaps it was Spock’s connection with Prof. Pike --- Spock was not to be trusted then. Jim was their only hope.

 

After searching through the bunker, passing Sulu working in the bridge, and McCoy and Uhura playing chess in the clinic, Chekov stood outside the safety of their shelter. It was possible that Jim had gone to the outhouse. Purposely, he strode towards it.

 

In the midst of the howling winds, he could hear groaning and moaning inside. Chekov’s cheeks flushed instantly. Jim and… Spock were… they were…

 

He quickly backed away, shaking under his yellow windbreaker. Only moments before, he’d been full of optimism that they would survive this excavation, his heart broke with Jim’s betrayal. And now, he walked wretchedly back to the bunker, back to the still weeping quartermaster.

 

  


*****


	9. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photo is a **FABRICATION**. No infringement intended. See Authors' Notes at the end of fic for more disclaimers, acknowledgements, etc.

  


  


 

The unsetting sun was in its usual place above the snowy field that routinely gleamed at them. Scott parked the snowmobile where he had always done these past few days. His world was lying, of course. There was nothing normal about today’s supply run. Today…

 

“Today’s the day, doctor,” Scott heavily sighed.

 

McCoy took this opportunity to stare him down. “What’s with you? Lighten up, man!” he said exasperatedly.

 

“Shhh,” Scott hushed his companion. “Best not to alert the guards.”

 

The doctor rolled his eyes, muttering. As McCoy went ahead, Scott slung his _Kalashnikov_ over his shoulder. He was going to give him the time he needed to take it all in. After all, McCoy was not a quartermaster and could never really appreciate the difficult task of making everyone think that they were safe, secure and had nothing to worry about. Since the good doctor had a tendency towards hysterics, it was necessary for Scott to handle this with delicacy. The quartermaster had no choice… McCoy won the honor of being their hero all by default. He tried not to sigh as he followed the doctor.

 

As the two made their way around the outcrop to reach Narada on the other side, Scott audibly sniffed, making McCoy grumble more. The doctor had no idea what was in store for them. He had no idea of the hard decisions Scott had to make every time he went for a supply run. It was not an easy task to pilfer supplies from such a heavily defended camp. Only with the cooperation of the other four quartermasters that it was made possible. In a secret meeting, the quartermasters all agreed that by simply showing up and asking for supply was going to be difficult --- that it would only lead to trouble. So, they’d bribed one of the logistics officers from Narada to take care of the numbers and steal all the food supplies that they needed.

 

When McCoy stopped in his tracks, Scott was immediately alert, holding his rifle securely in front of him.

 

“By god,” McCoy breathed looking in awe at Narada. “It’s a fortress.”

 

Scott growled like a rabid dog at the direction of the headquarters. Narada’s camp sat on packed stone, snow and ice, elevated to about three feet from the ground. Standing on the edge, one could see for miles on the empty tundra, except for behind the outcrop. Armed guards could be seen patrolling around the edge as menacing black bunkers lined the encampment like walls.

 

“Word of advice,” said Scott seriously. “Try to blend in.” He pulled McCoy up and led him to the side of the encampment. When the coast was clear, Scott and McCoy climbed up the platform.

 

To his credit, McCoy didn’t complain. Nor did the doctor ask about the foothold on the side of the encampment. Instead, McCoy followed Scott faithfully along the walls of the bunker. Scott opened a square opening on the side of the black bunker and crawled in. The opening was courtesy of the other quartermasters who had made sure that the others wouldn’t have any trouble getting their supplies.

 

The two then finally had entered the supplies bunker. Although the quartermasters had access to food supplies, they were unfortunately unable to procure medical supplies, which were stored elsewhere. They were most likely in the busier areas of the encampment making it too dangerous to steal. Upon McCoy’s request, Scott had tried to get them the much needed medical supplies. But he had barely escaped notice through the skin of his teeth and was only able to liberate first-aid kits. But McCoy was unsatisfied. At first, Scott felt that McCoy was an ungrateful bastard. Then Chekov told him about Jim and Spock having a hanky-panky affair last night. That made it imperative that McCoy be told of Narada’s situation and Pike’s role in all of this _shite_. Scott deemed it best to just show the doctor, since McCoy had decided long before that Scott was insane and anything that was said would be highly suspect.

 

McCoy grabbed his arm. “What the fuck is going on, Scotty?”

 

“This is how we get supplies,” Scott answered simply, pulling a sack from within his white windbreaker and shoving it towards McCoy. “If you’d just hold this for me, it would make this faster. We don’t want to be here for very long.”

 

That was a lie. Scott wanted to be there for a long time so McCoy could realize what Narada really was. He peered above the crate towers, looking out for guards.

 

“This looks like a fucking treasure hunter’s nest,” McCoy said, stating the obvious.

 

Scott nodded silently and started to pull raw chicken out of the crate and into his sack. It only served to irritate McCoy, who chose to express his feelings by dropping the sack and made his way to the door of the bunker. Sheer panic surged through Scott’s being. He had intended to show McCoy, but he was not counting on getting shot at. Realizing that there was something terribly wrong in his plans, Scott had tried to grab McCoy back to safety. But the doctor was quick in his steps and was out of the door in a jiffy.

 

“I’m finding Pike,” McCoy bristled. “And Nero. We’re going to have a few words. I refuse to live like this!”

 

“That’s not a good idea, lad. That’s just going to get us in trouble,” Scott pleaded.Surprisingly, McCoy’s confidence masked him from the suspicious eyes of the patrols. The doctor looked like it was his business to be there. Scott, grasping the _Kalashnikov’s_ strap, tried to emulate the same confidence, carefully following behind.

 

McCoy selected a random black tent in the middle of the bunker walls and went in. It was Scott’s turn to be in awe when they were greeted with crates and tables filled with different types and grades of firearms. If they had any doubts, it was clear now that Team Narada was nothing but a front for treasure hunters. Scott’s survival instincts made him turn about and walk out immediately. Proving to be the madder of the two, McCoy walked out slowly.

 

“Nero could be holding Pike captive,” McCoy deduced. The doctor walked further into the interior of the encampment, determined as ever.

 

“I doubt that,” Scott tried.

 

“We have to rescue him from this madness,” McCoy said valiantly. Scott could only follow him, nodding now and then --- he could never abandon him. _No man left behind_ , was in their oath after all. McCoy led them towards the black tent in the middle of the encampment with a yellow banner ribbon flying high. Scott gulped as they made their way towards the emperor tent.

 

“If we’re going to rescue Pike, maybe we should be a bit stealthy,” suggested Scott. “Part of a quest is making it out alive, I hear.”

 

“Questing? This is how we finish quests in Georgia!” said McCoy resolutely.

 

Scott didn’t have time to retort as McCoy led them to certain death into the huge tent. He had started to doubt his decision in letting McCoy know about Narada. This was why Jim was the better choice. At least, Jim was not keen on dying.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” scowled Pike, besting McCoy’s fury. He turned to the armed Scott, and then glared at McCoy.

 

“You’re in on this?!” McCoy hollered in disbelief. Scott knew that it could be heard outside. He clutched his weapon tighter in his hands. _Ready_.

 

Pike had been sitting behind a round table, with a field journal, several maps and a handful of papers in front of him. He also appeared to have been smoking a pipe, which he had set down on a pretty silver tray. Their site director stood up as soon as he saw them, expertly hiding any emotion, except for anger.

 

“Set your weapon down, Mr. Scott,” ordered Pike. Scott only held on to it tighter. He could hear movement from outside, confirming that McCoy’s howl had alerted the guards.

 

“I’m na’ dyin’ here, Professor,” clarified Scott firmly.

 

Pike took a deep breath. “Guards,” he yelled. Several black clad and armed personnel then entered the tent and surrounded Scott and McCoy. Scott was shouting things such as “You’re not going to take me alive” and “You drop your weapons!” plus, “Phasers set to stun!” which even Scott later admitted was a bit off. Meanwhile, McCoy’s eyes remained locked in on a staring contest with Pike.

 

“This is a mistake,” said Pike quietly, breaking his stare.

 

“You’re right about that,” scoffed McCoy.

 

“Take these two idiots to the brig,” Pike ordered to the Narada men.

 

  


***

 

“I think we’re gonna need another crate, Spock,” Jim droned as he careful placed the bagged artifact into the crate beside him. They had brought two crates with them at the site, together with several packs of ziplock plastic bags, rolls of aluminum foil for the metals, low stools and permanent markers.

 

Sulu had been right about the artifacts within the vessel --- there were lots of it. Even though neither he nor Spock had gone down, both of them were astonished of the amount that was delivered to them via the pulley Scotty had made during the storm, which was brilliant, really. Scott was able to assemble the sturdy equipment out of discarded junks that had been lying around their bunker. Although the Scotsman assured them that it wouldn’t break under their weights, the team synonymously agreed not to take the risk. Thus, it was decided that Sulu and Chekov, since they were lighter than either Jim or Spock, were to go down and investigate. Uhura would have been perfect for the job, but she needed to stay in the camp and report to Narada as per usual, waiting for the radio to reconnect with Narada.

 

To be honest, Jim really wanted to explore the insides of the vessel. And so did Spock. But even if the pulley was as good as Scott had promised, there’d be no one to lower either of them without accidentally dropping them to their deaths. Jim had had one experience of almost plummeting to his death, and that was more than enough for this field season.

 

And most importantly, of course, if they fell, they could destroy the well-preserved vessel. No, both he and Spock were not going to let that happen. The total station already ruined parts of its preserved state!

 

For certain though, when Bones and Scotty get back from the supply run, he and Spock would trade places with Sulu and Chekov. In the meantime, both of them remained near Trench 2, sitting across each other on low stools, patiently labeling and bagging the artifacts sent up by the other two.

 

After their tryst last night, _twice_ , he thought smugly, and this early morning, he and Spock had been more open with each other --- few brushes here and there, stealing soft kisses away from the eyes of the team and enjoying their time alone together.

 

Well, it was normal anyway for archaeologists in the field --- that the two of them ended up having sex. Jim never had any preference between men and women, never been an issue with him. But he never fancied himself to be suddenly attracted with Spock. There was some sort of chemistry between them, which that much he admitted to himself. The first time he’d talked to Spock on that welcome party, he was partially half-kidding and half-serious. Well, he couldn’t help it; the other man was intriguing and hot and brilliant. Especially when Jim had heard his presentation.

 

Man, that certainly was the beginning. Then Spock had stumbled on him in the museum. He was only there to reflect what his past decisions in life had gotten him into, before Spock had disrupted his thoughts. Granted that he was pissed at that time, but if Spock hadn’t been there, if he didn’t tell him that Pike might be able to locate Kelvin, then Jim wouldn’t be here.

 

And he wouldn’t have gotten to know Spock. For all the other’s stoic demeanor, he was pretty easy to read. Well, at least for him anyway. Sulu had secretly always referred to Spock as the Ice Prince of Archaeology --- heartless and colder than Antarctica.

 

But that wasn’t the case. Jim had found Spock to be… nice. Okay, he was more than nice. Spock was --- how should he put this? --- exceptional. The man was just economical when it came to his emotions. Not socially awkward or anything. Just, just kind of indifferent. Apathetic.

 

Somehow, Jim got that. In the least, as far as he had observed, Spock would never cross the line of the event horizon of morality.

 

Jim sneaked a glimpse at the other man busy wrapping a rusty blade with foil. He couldn’t help smiling. With the light from the sun, Spock’s alabaster skin was so smooth that he wanted to cup the man’s cheeks and kiss him right then and there. Jim very much knew how Spock could blush.

 

As if feeling his watchful gaze, Spock looked at him, and Jim, for all his courage, suddenly averted his eyes. He promptly returned to bagging the artifacts.

 

Few more artifacts went into his crate before Jim stood, knees popping loudly. “I’m going to take these back,” he announced to Spock as he heaved one crate and deposited it on the sled. Once Jim had the two crates secured, he carefully threaded towards the edge of Trench 2 and told his other teammates that he’d be back with more crates, plastic bags and labeling slips.

 

With a nod and a wave at Spock, who was gently regarding him, Jim grabbed the rope and dragged the sled back to the camp. It would have been faster with the snowmobile but currently, there was none left with them. They had been provided with two; Scotty and Bones were using one for the supply run, Pike took the other to get to Narada days ago.

 

On the way back to the camp, Jim wondered why Pike hadn’t returned to them yet. Not that he was concerned or anything about the older man, he just wanted to know what was taking Pike so long. On the day the team saw him last, Pike had told them that the Federation had called him in, which Jim had confirmed with Uhura, who was manning the radio as always that morning. He remained suspicious about him, but that had lessened after the survey and as days gone by and he had calmed down.

 

It seemed he had made a mistake of accusing the man as his father’s killer.

 

Granted that Jim had never known his father --- hadn’t even met him, but his death had a huge impact on his family. His mother had been distant for as long as he could remember, but she was neither neglectful nor an irresponsible mother, just --- just sad, often weeping alone in her room while his young self peered through the small slit of the door from the hall. And Jim had watched her cry herself to exhaustion for _years_.

 

His mother never talked about his father, but he was able to connect with him through the several wooden models of ancient vessels that were scattered all over the attic. Add to that the several books on history, anthropology and archaeology belonging to his father that he had uncovered at the same time. It was then that Jim found out who George Kirk really was --- an archaeologist. This piqued his curiosity, which prompted him to visit museums to know more of his father’s work.

 

Yet, as he had already fallen in love with ships, Jim did not follow in his father’s footsteps, taking up Nautical Engineering instead. Even so, archaeology remained very much part of his life. He went to the nearest museums just to find solace in the presence of artifacts while he continued with his life, content.

 

Until he found the shame that his father brought upon his family in one of his visits in the museum in Maryland. Not believing the accusations by the strange, old man --- a researcher in the facility or something, Jim immediately went to investigate. When he found his father’s journals, he had confronted his mother about it, demanding the truth out of her. But she didn’t say a word. Instead, she gave him one name --- Pike.

 

His pride and anger had taken over his person. He dropped his plan for a graduate study in engineering, and perused the journals, deciphering its codes to find what his father had done that warranted his mother to move to Iowa as soon as he was born. It wasn’t easy, since the inner workings of the archaeological world were difficult to understand as an outsider. But Jim was very determined, and he had the journal and Pike’s name as a starting point.

 

Now, he was very close in uncovering the mystery that surrounded his father’s death. He would not be stopped until he succeeded.

 

As soon as he entered the bunker, Jim found Uhura in the bridge, updating Narada regarding their recent discovery. He waited for her to finish.

 

“Hey,” greeted Jim casually. “Have Bones and Scotty checked in? It’s almost lunch and they’ve been gone for over three hours.”

 

Uhura seemed to realize that he was right. She grabbed the receiver, “Enterprise to Narada. Enterprise to Narada, do you copy?”

 

“Narada here, Enterprise,” came an answer.

 

“Two members of our team went for a supply run,” said Uhura. “Have they checked in, over.”

 

There was a pause and then, “Negative, Enterprise. I repeat, that’s a negative, over.”

 

“Thank you, Narada. Over and out,” Uhura answered, sharing a puzzled look with Jim. “That’s strange. Scott’s usually back before lunch.”

 

Jim thought for a moment, then, “Maybe Bones got them delayed. He gets fuzzy when it comes to his medical supplies, believe me.”

 

“It’s the doctor in him,” remarked Uhura with a smile.

 

Smiling in return, Jim nodded, “When you’re done here, join us at the site. Sulu and Chekov need help down there.”

 

“I will.”

 

With a wave of his hand, Jim went to deposit the crates into the Artefact Management Room. Then he went into the Equipment Room to get more materials. _I should bring three crates, just in case_ , he thought to himself.

 

Once he turned to leave, Jim suddenly found Chekov blocking the entrance. “Hey, did Spock send you? Do we need anything else?”

 

Chekov shook his head and quickly closed the door behind him, leaning his back against it.

 

His brows furrowed in confusion. Chekov had been acting strange since last night, and this morning, he’d barely said a word to anyone. Jim associated that to the overall stress of the fieldwork, yet during the time when most of them were on the verge of killing each other, Chekov had been sickeningly perky. Maybe the younger man was finally too tired of putting up a front.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Chekov then took a deep breath. “I want to show you something.”

 

Jim stood aside as Chekov moved to remove the stacks of crates, revealing what seemed to be a crate, which was covered by a black tarpaulin. Before he could ask anything, the younger man pulled the cover with a swift movement. His eyes almost popped out of its sockets as processed what he was seeing.

 

“What the hell?” yelled Jim, unable to contain his surprise. He knew about firearms --- he went to a goddamned naval academy for God’s sake. But what in the world are these doing here? With them?

 

“Mr. Scott,” said Chekov suddenly. “He--- he got these be-because---” a deep breath, “because he wants to protect us.”

 

Did Scotty know about the treasure hunters that attacked them during the survey? Jim certainly did not tell him, and he knew Sulu had been mum about that too. It couldn’t be Pike either.

 

“Protect us from what, Chekov?” Jim asked cautiously. “It’s illegal to kill polar bears and other wild life in this area. I know Scotty loves to hunt, he told me once. But this---”

 

“You don’t understand!” screamed Chekov, taking Jim aback. “No one understands! You do not know what Mr. Scott does for us. You don’t know and you don’t care!”

 

“Calm down, Pavel,” said Jim gently, raising both hands to place on the younger man’s shoulders in placation. But Chekov recoiled before he could even touch him.

 

“No!” Chekov screamed again. “You’ve been blind. All you see is Spock. But Scott and I saw it! We heard Nero’s plan! He’s a treasure hunter, and he wants the Gift of the Gods!”

 

Jim’s eyes narrowed in an instant. “What are you talking about?” When Chekov didn’t answer immediately, he lost his patience. “What the _fuck_ are you talking about, Chekov?! What plans?! _Answer_ me for fuck’s sake!”

 

Chekov gulped but he looked at Jim directly in the eyes, strong and determined. “Back in Oslo, in the museum, we --- Mr. Scott and I, we saw Nero threatening Prof. Pike. He had a gun pointed at the professor and he had this list written by George Kirk, your father. Nero said he took it himself from a dead woman’s hands. Prof. Pike agreed to trade the list with the Kelvin site’s location. He’s going to take the treasure hunter to the Gift of the Gods.”

 

Jim felt as though he’d been doused with cold, freezing water. His nails dug into his palm as he shook in rage. It all made sense now --- the sudden attack on them during the survey, how Pike knew they were treasure hunters, Pike’s absence in the camp and the slow progress of their excavation! They’d been played, all of them!

 

And Spock! Of course Spock knew, Jim suddenly realized. The man never questioned Pike’s orders, he never took an initiative in hurrying their excavations, he always covered for Pike, and Jim was perfectly aware that Spock was far from stupid. The only logical reason was that Spock knew what was really going on and had been distracting the team for them not to discover Pike’s true goals.

 

Without a word, Jim trumped out of room, tearing the door wide open. He barely heard Chekov’s call as he hurried back to the site. And the moment he saw Spock, who was standing by the edge of the trench, seemingly talking with Sulu below, Jim saw red. He didn’t care for the dangerous location; he just grabbed Spock by the front of his windbreaker and screamed.

 

“You _knew!_ ” he roared at Spock’s face. “You knew everything!”

 

Despite the situation he was in, Spock merely raised an elegant eyebrow. “To what do you refer to, Jim?”

 

Unable to reign himself he punched Spock, sending him sprawling to the ground. But before Jim could give him another blow, Spock was already on his feet and had hit him back, just as hard. Jim licked his bloodied lip, and lunged in attack. Like gladiators in the arena, they fought --- Jim in anger, hurt and pain of betrayal, and Spock in defense and retaliation.

 

When Jim lost his balance, Spock immediately had his hand around his neck, pushing him to the ground and trapped him by straddling on his abdomen. _Shit!_ thought Jim, panting as he scowled at Spock, who was equally glaring down at him.

 

“Calm the fuck down,” Spock suddenly hissed, which would have been funny, hearing the man swear, but Jim was feeling nothing but anger towards him. The grip around his neck lessened, but it remained firm. “ _What_ are you talking about?”

 

Jim couldn’t help it, he laughed --- bitter, loud, mad with the intensity of the emotions trapped in his chest. “Pike betrayed us and you _knew_ everything from the start! You betrayed _me_ , Spock. You’re the one who told me about Pike’s search of Kelvin, not him. _You’re_ the one who lured me here. You never questioned Pike --- I thought that’s just because you’re such a good, little puppy who follows his master’s orders for treats. But of course not! You’re too fucking smart for that, so you covered for him, just like what you were doing when you presented your results on Hammerfest.”

 

Spock’s expression remained unchanged, so Jim continued, “Pike made a deal with Nero: Kelvin’s location and the Gift of the Gods over a fucking list! You knew about that too, didn’t you? Like how you knew about my encounter with Pike at the museum because even I didn't notice you were there. You see, Spock, I’ve watched you all this time, and you have a knack at sneaking up on people. But it _never_ crossed my mind that you’re part of Pike’s whole scheme! I respected you, admired your brilliance, but now I’ve realized you’re nothing but a bastard!”

 

“Jim---”

 

“Let me go,” growled Jim. “Let the fuck go, Spock. _Now._ ”

 

Slowly, hesitantly, Spock released him, standing to the side and warily watched his every move as he stood. As soon as Jim straightened himself, he immediately turned and walked away, intending to leave the excavation all together.

 

“Jim,” Spock called suddenly in a monotonous tone, putting him to a halt. “In accordance to the Federation’s constitution, chapter five, section three, if you abandon the site, we will no longer be responsible for you, nor will we be held accountable of what could happen to your well-being.”

 

Jim smirked bitterly, “Watch me.”

 

  


***

 

McCoy violently shook the metal bars caging both him and Scott. He shouldn’t have signed up for this shit! Yelling, cursing and screaming for anyone to release them had been a futile effort and a complete waste of time. No one came to silence him, as though he and Scott didn’t pose any threat to them. Granted that was the truth, but their captors could have at least given them some water. They’d been trapped there like lab rats since this morning! Then again, they were prisoners and their rights had been stripped off.

 

He sighed, massaging his throat. “Damnit!”

 

“Ye canna do anythin’,” said Scott, who had all but given up, sitting on the ground and doing nothing. “I shudda brought Sulu.”

 

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” McCoy remarked with a roll of his eyes.

 

“Of course it would!” yelled Scott vehemently. “The lad has several hunting knives with ‘im, he has a good aim, and he has kung-fu!”

 

McCoy’s eye twitched dangerously. “What are you saying here, Scott?”

 

The insane man suddenly stood and repeatedly pounded a finger on McCoy’s chest. “This is yer fault! I told ye to not investigate, I told ye it’s dangerous, but ye dinna listen! Ye marched in without thinkin’ things over and now, look where we are! We’re prisoners and there’s not even a morsel of sandwich!”

 

“Is that all what you think about? Food?!” McCoy snapped angrily. He didn’t take Scott’s accusation well. “How the hell was I supposed to know that Pike was in on this shit? You could have told me and I wouldn’t have charged in!”

 

“Ye wouldn’t have believed me if I did!” countered Scott.

 

“Of course not, you’re insane!”

 

“See! Ye admit it yerself!”

 

McCoy sighed, “Fine. It’s my fault. Happy?” The Scotsman hmphed, crossing his arms over his chest and purposely turned his head to the side. “We got duped and screwed all over. All of us.” He released another sigh, “I hope they’re okay back there.”

 

“Aye,” mumbled Scott in agreement.

 

“We have to get out of here,” said McCoy, looking at the bars again. “Jim has to know what’s going on. We have to warn the team and report this to the Federation.”

 

“And how do we do that, lad?” challenged Scott. “Did ye forget where we are? We canna do anythin’!”

 

McCoy growled, but he didn’t say anything. The insane Scotsman actually had a point. But they had to escape, somehow. He had to tell Jim, had to tell him that he’d been right all long --- that Pike most likely have killed his father. Damnit! He should have at least tried to advise Jim to just move on with his life and leave the past behind. But he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t do anything --- just listened to Jim as he poured out all his troubles to him during their drunken nights together.

 

Too late, he was already in too deep, as all members of team Enterprise were, whether the others knew about it or not.

 

Carefully, he scanned the room, searching for anything that could pick the lock or something.

 

“--- dinna shit in his own backyard,” Scott was saying. “I mean, I have eyes. I saw how they looked at each other even before we got in this island.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

Scott blinked at him. “Hm? Ye weren’t listening! See, ye never listen to me!”

 

McCoy reeled in his urge to strangle the man. “Good god man, I was trying to come up with a plan! Now what the hell are you talking about?”

 

“Jim and Spock!” exclaimed Scott. “They’re sleepin’ together!”

 

“Not that again,” grumbled McCoy, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Scott… Scotty, there’s nothing going on between them. I know you’ve been bored and insane and drunk, but these gossips just have got to _stop_. And don’t think you’ve gotten away from the rumors you’ve spread about me and Uhura.”

 

“It’s the truth!” argued Scott. “Chekov heard them in the outhouse last night! And the lad would never lie about that. It’s why he dinna tell Jim ‘bout the guns I hid in the Equipment Room. It’s why yer here instead of him!”

 

“Wait,” said McCoy, raising one palm. “What guns? You have more than one rifle with you back at camp?”

 

This time, Scott rolled his eyes. “Of course I have! We needed to be prepared.”

 

Then it dawned to McCoy that Scott knew more about the situation than he let on. With his anger sobered by Scott’s confessions, McCoy realized the extent of Scott’s operation. Of course, Scott knew about Narada since the first supply run, and Nero as well. But then… “When did you find out about Pike?”

 

“Since the conference,” admitted Scott. “Heard him and Nero talkin’.”

 

“Why the hell didn’t you tell any of us?! Anyone?!” McCoy yelled, yet again. “We could have prevented this if---”

 

“No one would believe me!” countered Scott ferociously. “When I told the world I found Nessie, no one believed me!”

 

McCoy was about to counter when there was a sudden movement by the entrance. They heard a loud thud, then Pike hurried towards their cell, immediately putting the key into the lock. “No time to explain. You have to hurry.”

 

As soon as they were freed, McCoy hit Pike on the face. “You have some _nerve_ , Pike!”

 

“Shut up, McCoy,” hissed Pike, holding his jaw as he fished a set of keys and a small black device that looked like a GPS from his coat. He handed it to both to McCoy. “Here. Take the truck in the back. Give that to Spock. He’ll know what to do.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“Just get the hell out of there!” Pike continued, ignoring their incredulous looks.

 

“We have no time! I’ll delay Nero as long as I can. They’re coming for Enterprise.”

 

“What about you?” asked Scott with a confused and worried tone.

 

But Pike wasn’t listening as he went towards the back of the bunker and sliced the wall with a knife, creating their exit. “You know the layout of Narada, Scott. The truck is by the outcrop. Tell Spock to take you to Prime. Now _go_!”

 

Before McCoy could even argue, Scott grabbed him by the arm and pushed him out of the bunker. As they hurried to get out of Narada, they heard a loud gunshot coming from the direction of where they were held.

 

  


***

 

The crates in the back of the supply truck slid to one side as the truck skidded to a halt in front of the Enterprise bunker entrance. McCoy practically threw himself out the door as Scott did the same on the other side.

 

“You’re late. Where’s dinner?” asked Sulu, annoyed. It was not right to leave him starving. His mood did not improve when the two men ran past him like he was nothing but an apparition. “Yeah, you better rush, Scotty. We’re starving,” he called, following them inside the bunker.

 

But Scott did not even go to the kitchen. Instead, he made for the Equipment Room. Sulu and Uhura both wore baffled looks. On the other hand, Chekov, standing taller, followed Scott silently.

 

“What are you doing?” Uhura demanded, her hands on her hips.

 

Chekov and Scott disappeared behind a few crate towers and came out with a crate covered with a tarp between them. On the other side of the bunker, McCoy bellowed for Spock. Their commander came out of the director’s quarters, as confused as Sulu and Uhura. He glanced behind McCoy, where Chekov and Scott were on their way out with the black tarped crate.

 

Spock held his hand up before McCoy could say a word. “We are in danger.”

 

“Tell me something I don’t know!” McCoy sniped. Spock immediately disappeared into the director’s office. The door was left ajar as Spock proceeded to open small vault on the wall and retrieved the team’s passports.

 

Satisfied, McCoy spun around to the other members of the team. “Narada’s a treasure hunter’s nest, with Nero leading. They’re coming to get us. We’re getting out of here.”

 

Guided by their quartermaster, Sulu and Uhura quickly sprung into action.

 

Every single archaeologist from all over the world had been taught that the words ‘treasure hunter’ meant an immediate evacuation of the team from the site. Only twenty years prior, archaeologists were being killed in the field by treasure hunters by the handfuls. It was a long and deadly battle. Because of the alarming death rate, archaeologists had decided to band together and create a professional association that would serve to protect each other. It was then that the Federation was born. Though the Federation had successfully lowered the death rate, it was evident that the threat remained uncrushed.

 

McCoy grabbed Spock’s arm before he walked further away. “Here,” he said, giving him the thingamajig. “Pike said to take us to Prime, whatever that means.”

 

With a nod, the two of them went off separately, to help with the evacuation.

 

“Aren’t we getting the artifacts?” asked Uhura, dragging a crate out of the door.

 

“The Federation states that, in case of clear and present danger, we are not required to rescue the artefacts,” answered Spock, picking up the crate off the ground.

 

Driven by adrenalin, Sulu lifted a heavy crate into the truck like it contained feathers. “Where did you get the truck, Scotty?”

 

“We’ll explain later!” Scott hollered from within the truck, pulling Sulu’s crate into the interior. “Someone get the radio.”

 

“Chekov’s on it,” yelled Bones as he dumped a crate on the snow, then running towards the bunker for more.

 

“Well done, Mr. Scott, for organizing emergency supplies in advance,” said Spock, pointedly.

 

Scott shrugged. “Never you mind. I dinna get old in this business without knowing a thing or two.”

 

In the bunker, Chekov was pulling cables from under the table as Uhura rushed out the quarters laden with blankets. McCoy was in the clinic, packing all the medical supplies. Sulu ran in and cursed their computer for being the slowest piece of technology he’d ever encountered. He was downloading the Enterprise files into his personal terabyte external hard drive. When the flow of crates stopped, Scott angrily returned to the bunker.

 

“Didn’t anyone remember to bring out the food?!” he yelled, standing in the bridge.

 

“We’re busy,” answered McCoy with his own crate of medical supplies. “Ask Spock.”

 

Scott didn’t bother and dashed to the kitchen, raiding the cupboards. “And then you’re all going to get mad at me for forgetting your booze…” he muttered. Then he realized that something was not quite right. “Where’d Jim go?” he called to the team in general.

 

Chekov came out with of the bridge with the radio in his arms. “He abandoned the site,” he answered while the others busied themselves.

 

“What the fuck do you mean?!” McCoy almost shrieked, as he made it back to the bunker. But Chekov only side-stepped him, with his head down. “Spock, where the fuck’s Jim?”

 

“Dr. Kirk has chosen to abandon the site,” repeated Spock levelly, hands full of sleeping bags.

 

“That’s impossible!” countered McCoy. Scott was behind him, glaring at Spock.

 

“The Federation states that once a team member has declared intentions of leaving the site without permission, that archaeologist is no longer part of the team and should not be our concern,” Spock said logically.

 

McCoy scowled and was about to deliver his fist at Spock’s face, but Scott quickly pushed McCoy to the wall, restraining the doctor. Spock moved down the hall, ignoring them.

 

“Keep yer head on, McCoy,” warned Scott. “We’re going to ha’e to save ourselves before we can get to Jim.” Scott’s reasoning seemed to break through McCoy’s anger. The doctor calmed enough to help the quartermaster with the food supplies.

 

In thirty minutes, Enterprise had gone mobile. Scott and Spock each ran through the bunker one last time, before coming out. They found it best to avoid speaking to each other.

 

“Hurry it up! We gotta to go!” Sulu cried from the driver’s seat.

 

As Scott moved to the back of the truck where McCoy, Uhura and Chekov sat with the supplies, Spock opened the driver seat’s door.

 

“I will be driving,” said Spock simply.

 

Sulu was about to argue but Spock was wearing his expressionless face. It meant that Spock was about to burst with rage, so Sulu found it wise to shuffle to the passenger seat.

 

Spock took one last look at the old metal bunker with the faded NCC-1701 painted on the roof that had served as their home for this past week. Amidst the urgency of evacuation, the team expressed their farewell in their own way. Uhura and Chekov poked their heads out of the flaps at the back of the truck, while Scott and McCoy quietly sat on the floor.

 

“ _Sayonara_ , Enterprise,” Sulu breathed, forlornly.

 

With a short nod, Spock revved the engine, grabbed the wheels and drove Enterprise away to safety.

 

  


*****


	10. Chapter Eight

  


 

  
He felt the cold seeping through the several layers of clothes he pulled on before he left. Even though the sun had been out and there were no more threats from squalls, it was still colder than what he had gotten used to since the start of the rescue excavation. Even so, he continued to trek through the mountain tirelessly. One foot after the other, he threaded through the snowy grounds methodically. Once he reached the summit, Jim decided to take a break and regroup.

 

After his fight with Spock, he had packed his gear and left camp for good. He stopped for no one --- not Uhura, who had looked at him incredulously; and not Chekov, who used tears. Despite Jim’s ill humor, he was not a boor, and threw reassurance at Chekov. It wasn’t the young man’s fault. He didn’t add that it was Pike’s fault. That fucking asshole!

 

Jim sat on a relatively flat rock, set his pack on the ground and rummaged for sustenance. He took with him the necessary equipment he needed to survive including a thermal sleeping bag, lots of water, some canned goods, flashlights, a bottle of scotch and his packs of cigarettes --- to help him warm up, a map of Edge Island, his notes and a GPS device, which had been lying around the bridge and definitely belonged to Sulu. Prioritizing smokes more than food, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shook out a stick and put it between his dry lips. It trembled furiously as he lit it.

 

That goddamn fucking son of a bitch!

 

Pike had them fooled since the beginning. Jim couldn’t believe that he bought the bastard’s speech about his father. It was stupid of him to believe that Pike would go through with the deal they had. Pike had betrayed him, the team, and archaeology itself by collaborating with a treasure hunter. No, the bastard was already one. He had the Federation eating on the palm of his dirty hands. The motherfucker’s second-in-command was in it too! Spock had strung him along, using Jim’s weakness against him. He suspected that Pike had whored Spock out to get him.

 

That thought made Jim’s stomach churn. That sick bastard! Jim breathed out, remembering the feel of Spock’s skin, like the fine snow underneath his boots. Just last night, he was dreaming of the dragon tattoo on Spock’s hip. _Fucking damnit to hell!_

 

Jim didn’t stand a chance against two connoisseurs of deception. Nobody doubted Pike’s or Spock’s integrity, except for their quartermaster. But Scotty seemed to be playing a game of his own. The Scotsman didn’t even tell him that he’d known about it! What the hell was going on? He had trusted those people! He had been fed with layers and layers of lies that Jim had had enough!

 

He didn’t fucking need them. He’d look for the Kelvin site on his own even if it killed him. His only regret was that he didn’t get a chance to tell Bones everything that he’d discovered. Jim could only hope that his friend wouldn’t do anything drastic that could put him in danger. Bones had a daughter and a peaceful life to get back to, after all.

 

Earlier, when Jim could no longer see the bunker and the site, he had stopped, finally calming down a bit. Immediately, he went through his notes, which contained important entries from his father on the Kelvin Expedition. From what he could decipher on the many various codes thrown randomly in the entries, the site should be on the other side of the island, on the northwestern edge. But the question was where that exactly was. Since that was his only clue, Jim chose to take the risk. He had had arctic survival training back in his undergrad days --- he could do this!

 

As a starting point, Jim followed the same route they had taken during the survey. This time though, he decided to cut through the mountain as soon as he had gone three miles on the flat plane. The mountains within Edge Island weren’t like the Himalayas, so the climb wasn’t that extreme. The snow wasn’t as thick either. Still, it was a dangerous task.

 

In over five hours, he was almost at the top, and the moment he reached it, Jim dropped his gear to the ground and sat on it. He grabbed his water container and replenished himself with it. He then nibbled on the energy bar in one hand as he took his exact location with the GPS device. _77.33° North and 21.33° East_. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like he was on the right track. It would have been easier if his father had just written in one type of code, or if the arrangement of the entries were not like pieces of a plain white jigsaw puzzle. Then again, that would have defeated the purpose of inscribing in ciphers. And his father certainly knew a lot of it! Younger Futhark runic cipher with Pigpen cipher and Neo-Assyrian cuneiform were all mixed in together in some weird harmonic fusion. Some were even his father’s own invention, and Jim was able to decode only two out of four of it. Unfortunately, he had no _Rosetta_ stone for the remaining two. Still, it was an achievement.

 

That line of thought made Jim wonder if Pike had worked out the codes of his father’s journal in his possession. Then again, Pike was one of his father’s students and highly likely to be familiar with the ciphers. Spock probably helped him out on that.

 

 _Yeah, Spock probably did,_ snorted Jim bitterly. Then, he violently shook his head, forcing those things into the deepest recesses of his mind. He secured his notes back into the inside of his coat and gathered his gear. It was time to move forward.

 

The next time Jim stopped for a short break was when he was on the other side of the mountain, when he reached a flatter surface. One of the enemies of his life was gravity. If he had no self-preservation, he would have just flung himself down the snowy steep slope without thought.

 

Hands on his knees, he breathed heavily. A bit more to go and he’d be completely off the mountain. _Thank goodness_.

 

Just then, there was an abrupt sound that instantly put Jim on high alert. Cautiously, he moved his gaze, searching for what might have caused it. There was only stillness and silence upon the white field. _Shit_ , Jim cursed quietly. He should have brought at least one rifle from Scotty’s stock. Something then caught his eyes. He held his breath, and after few moments, he exhaled in relief. Just an arctic fox.

 

The said arctic fox had strategically camouflaged itself in the snow. As it was pure white, it was hard to recognize if it hadn’t twitched its ears. Jim vaguely wondered if it was hunting, or maybe it was lost because this kind of fox usually had companions with it. As he had no time to contemplate on the matter, Jim shrugged it off, carefully distancing himself from the creature. He was grateful it wasn’t a polar bear, or worse --- a wolf.

 

As he maintained his slow pace, walking backwards, Jim then saw two more foxes joining the first. Okay, so it wasn’t lost. Hopefully, it wouldn’t think of him as dinner. Just when he was about to turn and walk normally, a loud, deep growl made him stop. _Fuck, not good._ Little by little, he turned around, and came face to face with a very menacing polar bear. Its sharp, large teeth were bared to his direction. It didn’t look cute now than it had been in documentaries. Jim gulped, and then dashed as fast as his feet could carry him.

 

The bear followed him, thumping over the hoary ground.

 

Of course it went after him, Jim screamed silently. _Damnit!_ Weren’t polar bears supposed to be somewhere near a body of water and not up a freaking mountain?! What kind of wilderness was he in anyway? Did the environment in this island not follow the same ecological law?

 

He risked a back look, and saw that it was only a few meters from him. _Fuckity-fuck!_ Before Jim could continue to curse all gods, the heavens and his luck, he tripped, and he rolled down the slope. He landed on a frozen plane, torso first, making him wince in pain. When he looked up, the bear was already sliding down towards him. Not planning to have an epitaph of ‘squashed by a polar bear’, Jim pushed himself up and bolted into another run.

 

But it was more difficult than he had anticipated. The ice was so damn slippery that it was a struggle between running forward and keeping balance to avoid falling backwards. Finally, gravity won, and Jim collapsed on the ground. The polar bear stood on its two hind legs and roared.

 

 _Holy fucking shit!_ Before its giant paws could shred him to kingdom come, he rolled to the side and pushed himself immediately by his hands and his feet. What he didn’t notice as the bear chased him again was the cracking of the ice. Before he knew it, the ground below him disappeared and he plunged into the darkness.

 

Instinctively, he clawed his hands in the air until he was able to grab onto something. _Argh, shit._ Refusing to look down as he dangled in one hand, Jim swung his other arm for leverage, and compelled his weakened self up and up. When he finally flung one leg up, he rolled over and was finally on a flattened surface, safe and sound. He removed his backpack, threw it to the side and slumped on his back.

 

Jim licked his dry lips as he gulped for air, staring at the large opening far above him. Of all people in the world, it just had to be him. He cursed his strings of bad luck. First, the people he had placed his trust betrayed him; second, he had just to be chased by a freaking polar bear; and third, he had just to get himself trapped! Damn, his dissertation adviser had been right: when it rained, it poured and thundered, and the world imploded. _Damnit all!_ He was at least about four meters down from the large hole. How the hell was he going to get back up? He had no harness, or any other climbing equipment with him. And he certainly didn’t have Sulu’s prowess in impossible climbing.

 

Closing his eyes, he groaned a string of curses once again. He should have brought a fucking transceiver.

 

After he collected himself, he reached for his gear, fishing out a flashlight. Even with the sun high up in the sky, only little light could reach him. Jim first peered down at the edge, eyes squinting against dimness of the flashlight was giving him. Something was definitely down there though he couldn’t make out what it was.

 

Sighing in defeat, Jim turned around and suddenly jumped in surprise, almost slipping on the edge. Again. But that thought quickly disintegrated as he focused on a familiar shape leaning against the far wall in front of him. Jim warily moved towards the object and stopped, eyes widening in disbelief.

 

Huddled in a corner was a man, who had frozen to death still wrapped in old-fashioned winter gear. The corpse still had flesh and was well-preserved by the conditions of the environment. Mummified by ice and time, the figure sat on the ground with its back to the wall. It was hard to determine how long it had been dead. He shivered and he knew it wasn’t just from the cold. For all his experiences in the field, Jim had excavated quite a number of burials, and he remained fairly detached from the skeletal remains he had drawn, recorded, retrieved and accessioned. But to set eyes on a mummified corpse was unnerving.

 

But why was he here? The man certainly wasn’t a climber and he didn’t look like a local. Besides, no one _lived_ in Edge Island. The mining community was in Spitsbergen, all the way to the northwest from here. Maybe he was a member of the animal reserve and had gotten himself trapped in this large and deep cavity.

 

Moving his flashlight to look around the place, Jim noticed that the surrounding walls appeared to have been dug purposely. When he noticed the rotting ladder on the other corner, his assumption was confirmed. So, who in the world was this corpse?

 

His curiosity won and Jim picked up the notebook lying by the side of the corpse. He also noticed an old-modeled tape recorder, but he didn’t take it. It would be useless anyway, since the tape was undoubtedly as frozen as the old man. Sitting on the far end corner, Jim folded his knees and began reading through the entries, starting at the very last one.

 

 _“18 th October 1987, 19.30,”_ it began. _“With the exception of myself and G, the members of the team have been transported to safety. The intensity of the oncoming storm that was relayed to us was a mere fabrication of G, and I have agreed with his plan. It was the only logical solution that we have in order to avoid a massacre to occur. The Organization had mobilized. From what the agents of my House had reported, they would be here sooner than what any of us have anticipated._

 __

 _We are close. These old veins can already feel the presence of the Gift of the Gods. And it must not fall into the wrong hands…_

 

***

 

Side by side, the two of them carefully leaned against the fabric of the tent, hiding as they took advantage of the darkness of the incoming storm. They could hear the sounds of engines fading and voices barking orders. The trudge of boots became louder and louder.

 

It was good that they had immediately sent all the members of the team away for if they had waited for approximately an hour more, it would have been too late. Their assailants had arrived much earlier than they had anticipated. Both he and G had not yet even devised a solid plan on how they would go through this ordeal. There was only one goal though: to not let the Gift of the Gods fall into the Organization’s hands.

 

The legend of the mystical powers of the Gift of the Gods had been the reason that the Organization wished to possess it, whether or not its powers were true. According to the tales of Ynglinga Saga, those who willed the Gift of the Gods would be equal to Valhalla’s Einherjar. Though Prime had another motive aside from clearing the name of his House, he would not allow them to have it.

 

“Let’s go,” G whispered suddenly, disrupting his thoughts.

 

With a nod, he followed G as fast as he could. He was no longer young, but he pushed himself to catch up. They couldn’t afford to get caught. Not here, not now that they were so close. But if that were to happen, Prime had already prepared a plan.

 

As armed men ransacked the expedition’s camp, he and G hurried to the auxiliary trench. This trench was far from the main site, and only the two of them knew that this was not merely a test pit. G had dug Trench X alone, letting only Prime in the trench. It was a fairly large square, measuring four by four meters. After four meters of ice and permafrost, G had decided to section the trench in half. He left the west of the trench unexcavated creating a ledge. Two meters down on the east section of the trench, G uncovered planks!

 

It had taken G the better part of the nine weeks of the excavation. But G’s efforts were magnificently rewarded. Yet, as elements of the Organization started to set the camp ablaze, G’s hard work might be for naught.

 

With one pull, G whisked off the tarp covering the trench.

 

“Hurry, Prime,” G hissed as he beckoned the older man towards him. As soon as he was standing by G’s side, the man handed him a torch. “Hold this. I’m going down first.”

 

Prime nodded in affirmation. Holding two cold-blast kerosene lamps, G went down into the trench and he shortly followed, careful as he was holding the flashlight to guide him down. When Prime joined G on the wide step of permafrost, G had already lit one of the lamps.

 

“Stay here,” ordered G.

 

“What are you going to do?” Prime asked, worried.

 

“Lead them away as far as I can,” was G’s answer, one hand on the ladder. “If I’m not back---”

 

Prime’s eyes widened in surprise. “No! My agents are coming. You cannot---”

 

But G shook his head. “Your agents are late. That, or they’ve been intercepted and are already dead. We’ve got no other choice. They can’t have the Gift of the Gods.”

 

“But---”

 

“If I’m not back in five hours, that means I’m dead. Okay? You wait for a little longer before you go back up. Then, you get yourself out of Hoth. You hear?”

 

“I am dying, G,” Prime suddenly admitted. “Do not risk your life for a dying, old man.”

 

Unexpectedly, G softly smiled, “I know, Prime. But I promise you, you won’t die before I do.”

 

Stunned into silence, Prime could only watch his friend return to the surface. The tarp covered the trench once again moments after. He could hear snow being thrown on top of the tarp by the handfuls. After the footsteps faded, there was silence.

 

It was highly likely that G was right about his agents. Although Prime had offered to remain behind to wait for them, G had insisted on staying with him. The archaeologist wanted to see his excavation through, indicating that he was going to supervise the retrieval. Prime was impressed at G’s dedication to the discipline.

 

And there was really no stopping G.

 

A sudden fit of coughing consumed Prime, spewing blood on the permafrost. Doubled up and weakening by the second, Prime retrieved the journal he had always kept on his person. There had been no time to collect supplies when the armed men arrived as G had prioritized taking the gas lamps while Prime had struggled to catch up.

 

The old man was alone, without provisions and without medicine. He would not last very long, Prime mused as he pulled out a fountain pain from his pocket. It was best to use his remaining time on something worthwhile. The recorder was not an option at the moment since he didn’t want to alert anyone of his presence.

 

The old man sat down on the floor, and leaned his back on the wall.

 

***

 

 _“The Gift of the Gods must never fall into the wrong hands. My hope, you are the salvation of the House of Atreides. Make me proud.”_

 __

 _Prime Stolpe”_

 

Jim sat frozen on the ground --- the journal had fallen from his hands. His gaze was unseeing as so many questions filled his mind. The truth, he finally had the truth that surrounded the mysterious Kelvin Expedition. Yet, he didn’t know how to feel about that. One question answered and another question rose, branching and growing more and more. That was what everything was --- a fucking gigantic tree of mystery!

 

Gathering his thoughts, he took a deep breath and processed the information literally thrown at his face: G, that was his father, George Kirk. And this--- this old guy was a direct descendant of Hjalmar Evard Stolpe! Jim gravely looked at Prime’s corpse. So this was the sponsor of the Kelvin Expedition, some aristocrat who wanted to clear the name of his House. But he had never heard of the House of Atreides. Maybe it was one of those noble houses that changed its name, or had already gone underground, never to surface again. Moreover, who and what was this Organization that Prime was referring to? Was it some sort of secret society of fanatical treasure hunters?

 

Damn, there was no mention of this Organization in any of his father’s journals! How the hell was he--- Wait, Pike had his father’s journal --- the last one. If he had to dig himself anymore deeper into this shit than he already had, then he had to have that journal.

 

That was for much later. For now, he better find the Gift of the Gods first. According to Prime, the artifact was here, in this very deep trench. Standing up, Jim went to the edge again and looked down. Somewhere there, which he didn’t know how far below, was the vessel of King Ongentheow, and with him was the Gift of the Gods.

 

“How am I going to do this?” Jim asked no one in particular.

 

Just then, his ears caught a rumbling sound --- like a roar of an engine. _Shit!_ But there was no place to hide. He had two options: to jump down to his death, or face his adversary. Jim didn’t believe in no-win scenarios though. As long as he was alive, he could still change his fate. So, he remained where he was, standing tall, proud and unwavering as he waited for whoever it was to greet him at the opening.

 

Jim almost lost his balance when the head that popped out belonged to one Hikaru Sulu.

 

“Jim!” cried Sulu with a wide grin. “Guys!” He turned his head, calling his companions. “It’s Jim! Everyone, it’s Jim! Jim’s here!”

 

The next face Jim saw belonged to Chekov, then came McCoy, Uhura, Scotty and finally Spock. The six of them were all kneeling down by the edge of the opening --- Chekov was shouting something in Russian; Bones was yelling curses, Uhura was berating him, but Jim could see she was happy to see him too; Scotty’s brogue had become so thick that Jim couldn’t make out of the words coming from him. It was only Spock who remained silent, who regarded him with something Jim could not see.

 

As relief flooded into his system, Jim fervently waved back to Enterprise.

 

*****


	11. Chapter Nine

  


In a hastily constructed funeral pyre, the last of the great Stolpes burned brightly, like a beacon to call upon the heavens. As the flames consumed the empty shell of a body, Enterprise stood in silence, in respect.

 

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” murmured Scott, serenaded by the cracking of the wood.

 

He shed no tears, as he felt that he had drained it all for the twenty-seven of Tartessos. This was not the first time and definitely wouldn’t be the last time that an archaeologist would fall for cultural heritage. It was a dangerous profession hidden behind a semblance of mediocrity of academic desks and museum offices. In truth, archaeology made heroes. The field was a battleground far from the discerning eyes of journal article referees and the joviality of conferences. WAC served to celebrate the effectiveness of the Federation, but Scott knew it was but a farce. Although the Federation had won some major battles, the war was far from over. Every field season, a number of archeologists fall quietly and, sometimes, anonymously. The Federation covered this up… but he knew.

 

Montgomery Scott knew. As he looked discreetly around the somber faces of Team Enterprise, all in varying degrees of shock, mixed with sadness, he also knew this was no time for tears.

 

As Scott withdrew himself from the crowd, he squeezed Chekov’s shoulder in sympathy. Chekov chose to stay for a little while longer. He had bravely stopped himself from crying --- for the deceased stranger and for Mr. Scott. It was the Scotsman who had suggested sending their fallen comrade properly by creating the funeral pyre, since it was no use digging in the permafrost. It had taken Mr. Scott the good part of the night, even with Sulu’s help. Chekov was grateful that the quartermaster had something to keep himself busy --- to keep his traumatized mind from Tartessos. They could not afford to lose Mr. Scott now. They needed him.

 

Chekov needed Mr. Scott. He needed the older man to inspire him to greatness. Chekov had lived most of his life being told that he was the best of everything. Even when he had shifted to archaeology for Anya, he had been commended for his knack in remembering things. When he had expressed intentions to attend WAC, even if he was just in his first year, his adviser had immediately arranged for a scholarship. But he had to admit that he did not deserve it because he had no real love for archaeology. He thought archaeology served no real purpose in society as a whole.

 

But Mr. Scott and Team Enterprise had proven him wrong. For the first time in his life, he had found himself in a situation where he was at the back of the pack. In the field, he was helpless, unsure, and useless to certain extents. No matter how much he tried, he continued to do the wrong things. He realized that one had to have a certain maturity to be an archaeologist. The field amplified fears and made them real. It questioned the very core of one’s being and demanded so much of more than one could freely offer to give. When nothing was left, it would take the soul. Yet, that was how one would be able to find his or her real source of strength. Overcome that ordeal and that was only then that, _you become a true archaeologist_.

 

Chekov gave a short nod to Uhura and McCoy on their side of the circle and left knowing that someday, no, _one day_ , when he was ready, he was going to be a quartermaster.

 

McCoy nodded back to the departing Chekov. The old man they were bidding farewell to was nothing but a stranger to all of them. Somehow, McCoy felt he was transported back to a hospital. He’d seen dead bodies before, it was better than witnessing a patient dying on the operating table. Yet this old man had died alone, and that was worse.

 

He had examined the frozen cadaver. Supported by the dried and crusty blood on the clothes, the cause of death was highly likely a severe case of pulmonary edema. At first he thought it was Jim’s father, but the age didn’t match and the cadaver wore an annulet --- the Stolpe signet ring. Although it wasn’t George Kirk, this place was definitely where Jim’s dad was last seen alive. And, quite possibly, the old man was the last person who had been with George Kirk. It worried McCoy that Jim was discovering things about his father when they should focus on eluding the treasure hunters that were chasing them. They needed to keep calm and keep their head in the game.

 

Out of nowhere, Uhura lunged herself at McCoy. The doctor couldn’t help but recoil, remembering Uhura’s strong arms. But she only held on to his middle as she continued to sob, which had started since Jim had set the pyre. McCoy could only pat the woman’s trembling back.

 

When Uhura wailed uncontrollably further, McCoy realized his mistake.

 

Romance in the field was common enough. For people in isolation, it was normal to seek companionship or more. It was mostly done to defeat boredom. McCoy had carefully restricted his interactions with women in the field, since it could only lead to trouble. But his time with Enterprise had been desolate without Jim’s company. As McCoy had been used to every type of human behavior, he just tolerated Uhura’s attitude --- snobby, shallow and prone to violence. It wouldn’t last anyway, and he’d been right. As Jim spent more time with Spock, McCoy had ended up building a sort of friendship with Uhura. But that was all it was, McCoy insisted, no matter how much Scott persisted that there was more.

 

Uhura felt McCoy lead her away from the warmth of the flames.

 

Everything was so overwhelming. Although she had heard stories about treasure hunters and was taught to avoid them with a vengeance, she never really thought it was going to happen to her. As her colleagues looked for adventure, she decided long ago not to be among them. The world of archaeology where she moved in had involved endless papers, lectures and conferences. She had stolen away to the laboratories and kept her fieldwork to a minimum. Unbeknownst to her team who had thought that she enjoyed the field, she was a laboratory girl. Her version of archaeology existed in the four corners of her office, in the confines of her laboratory, in the boxes of artifacts that were collected by other archaeologists. She did not choose this!

 

This was the crappiest field she’d ever been in! First, the man she had chosen to become her husband was in-love with another man. That alone was humiliation enough. But the field had other surprises for her. Now, they were being chased by treasure hunters and were running for their very lives. She was on a fast track to becoming a Field Archaeologist, and she dreaded that she would have this look that experienced quartermasters like Scott had --- a blank look of death. She didn’t want to associate archaeology with fear.

 

It was said that archaeology made heroes. Some people were drawn to heroics like Jim, who stood at the other side of the pyre. And apparently, Spock was in that category as well. Even Sulu, who was also on Jim’s side looking thoughtful, had proven to be partial to bravery. Uhura wasn’t feeling courageous at all. Not yet, at least.

 

Sulu caught McCoy and Uhura go from his periphery. He didn’t pay them any attention while lost in his own thoughts. But he was aware of the things around him. There were three of them left standing by the pyre, and all of them were stuck in their own head.

 

Almost embarrassed, Sulu had been excited that he was given a chance to prove to the world that he was more than a technologically adept archaeologist --- that he was capable of being great. Hikaru Sulu was going to be the man!

 

But then, like all fieldwork, it asked for a price. Watching the pyre burn, Sulu understood that the path to greatness was paved with the bodies of colleagues. It was about survival rather than great works. It sounded easy enough. However, faced with the real possibility of death, Sulu found himself reluctant. This was unlike him, since he was never one to doubt himself or his actions. He was badass that way.

 

It didn’t feel great to be so badass now. It felt like… Scotty. Their quartermaster was, indeed, a master. Scott had learned to bury his sorrow under layers of cheerfulness, powered by whiskey. Sulu had a taste of this when they had gotten back to camp after their survey. He didn’t know that he was capable of such deception. The more horrible the field was, the happier you became because you added more layers to hide in. It was a sort of maturity, or maybe it was a shield. But the quartermaster was right --- in the field, there was more than one way to be badass.

 

And then there were two… Kirk stood with his back to Spock. He was finally at the site of the Kelvin Expedition. But instead of answers, all he found were more questions. In the least, Pike was absolved. After what Pike did for Bones and Scotty, the older man had risen to the ranks of good field directors. And now, it was Kirk’s turn to be like Pike and even surpass his father. Although he could see where he needed to go, his time at Enterprise had given him doubts.

 

“I have to take Enterprise,” said Kirk flatly, without turning around.

 

Spock nodded. “Prof. Pike had left me the team. We will be in good hands.”

 

“You think you can save us from all this?” Kirk scoffed, fist trembling at his side. “You’ve never had to deal with treasure hunters in Hammerfest.”

 

“You are incorrect,” answered Spock too calmly. “Prof. Pike and I have encountered treasure hunters a number of times, including Hammerfest.”

 

“Back then, you had Pike,” countered Kirk. “You don’t have the balls for getting your hands dirty.”

 

“You are in no position to make a proper assessment of my skills,” replied Spock as Kirk turned to face him. A glint of anger flashed for an instant in Spock’s eyes.

 

“You’re in no position to make the right decisions,” said Kirk, strongly. “Your past actions prove that you’re only going to lead us to our deaths. Getting med evac?! Are you fucking kidding me? That’s just going to tell Narada where we are. We’re going to end up dead like that Stolpe.” Kirk pointed at the pyre behind him.

 

Spock stirred. “My orders were logical. It will not, as you put it, lead to our deaths. In fact, it will bring us to safety. Unless, of course, you have doubts on the integrity of the Norwegian military.”

 

“And leave the Gift of the Gods here for the treasure hunters to take? That’s absurd. We took an oath,” Kirk reminded. “We serve cultural heritage. You’re driven by fear, Spock. That makes you a bad director.”

 

“What makes you believe you would make a better one?” Spock said, his fingers curling to fists.

 

“I don’t keep secrets,” said Kirk simply. “We can’t trust you.”

 

Spock didn’t answer. Although Kirk had been informed that it was Spock who had taken the mobile Enterprise to Kelvin’s location, Kirk had not reacted to the news until now. As expected, Kirk was highly unnerved. Yet, Spock needed to take Enterprise to the one location that Pike would steer Nero away from. At the time, the logical choice was to leave camp, retrieve the Gift of the Gods and steal away to the mainland. But Spock was driven by strange emotions and a sense of duty that he found himself unable to leave his team behind. It would have been torture or death for his innocent crew.

 

Perhaps his relationship with Kirk had influenced his decisions. Kirk’s life goal was a rather romantic notion of gallantry. Where Spock had valued sense, Kirk encouraged sensibility. They were polar opposites. Their connection was unexpected, yet --- and yet, it gave Spock an impression of pleasantness that he had never understood. It may be traced to their strong familial connections. They were both dutiful sons, and in it, they found themselves equals.

 

“I cannot give you what you want,” answered Spock, finally.

 

“I’m not asking,” retorted Kirk. “I’m trading.” Kirk pulled out a worn journal from his jacket. “Take this and go. It’s got a lot of good stories in it for Heidelberg. It’s going to make you famous. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You’re in it for the glory. You’ve never cared about the team---”

 

It must have touched on a purely emotional level. Spock watched as own his fist made contact with Kirk’s jaw. Kirk staggered back from the unexpected blow, dropping the journal to the snow. With absolutely no finesse, Kirk retaliated with a sharp jab at Spock’s stomach.

 

“Oi!” Scott hollered as he ran towards the two, with McCoy behind him.

 

The quartermaster and the doctor separated the them.

 

“Calm down, Jim!” said McCoy as the rest of the team ran towards the commotion.

 

Spock freed himself from Scott and straightened. He took the fallen journal and stowed it in his blue windbreaker. “If everyone is in agreement with the new arrangements made by Dr. Kirk, then my presence here is no longer required.”

 

The team stood in shock as Spock walked away from Enterprise --- steady, straight and without a backward glance.

 

***

 

At the unexcavated ledge where the Stolpe man was found, Scott and Sulu checked the rigging for the last time. At the surface, Chekov waited to be called down for another reconnaissance mission, just like the one before. McCoy and Kirk had joined Chekov at the edge of Kelvin’s Trench X, ironing out the game plan for retrieval. Uhura watched all this as she made her way to them. The three Enterprise members stared at her, baffled at her presence.

 

“I’m going down,” said Uhura. Without waiting for a response, Uhura descended down the new ladder to the ledge.

 

At the ledge, Sulu actually stopped and looked lost. Scott looked directly at Kirk, who only shrugged.

 

“Strap this on, Uhura,” said Sulu, handing her a harness.

 

“Don’t you worry, none, lassie,” assured Scott with a wide grin. “Sulu and I got ya.”

 

For a minute, Uhura’s resolve was about to crumble. But Kirk put a hand on her shoulder and winked at her. Stupid farm hick! He might be their excavation director now that Spock had gone AWOL, but that didn’t make him cute. Uhura shook her thoughts out of her head --- she had to focus! Earlier, the team had intended for her to stay in the tent they’d just set up and watch the radio. Unacceptable! She was being separated from her team, and Uhura was never the odd girl out. She was the star of the show. This was what fear did to her; it made her… uncool.

 

Watching the old Stolpe’s funeral pyre had reminded her why she was afraid. And watching Spock go made her realize that she was being stupid. Spock was ready to leave the team at its hour of need. That was pure fear, or just plain cowardice. She saw herself in Spock, and she didn’t like it. _And_ she didn’t like Spock. Uhura was going to war against her own personal demons and was going to successfully retrieve that fucking artifact.

 

After she was securely harnessed, Uhura eased her way out of the edge and was carefully lowered down. In the darkness, her feet felt the hard, wooden floor of the interior of the wreckage. Pulling out a glow stick from her coat, she held it above her head. She found herself in the middle of a large long room, walls lined with more than enough burial goods to fill the truck. Tossing the glow stick towards one end of the room, it filled the gloom with an eerie yellow light. The stick rolled towards the foot of a metal boat with the ‘lightning storm in ice’ symbol. Kirk was right, this was where the Gift of the Gods would be found.

 

Uhura put her weight on her feet and unstrapped herself, pulling on the rope to send the harness back up for Kirk, who hollered about her status from above. Uhura yelled for Kirk to get down there immediately because she was damn not waiting for him.

 

As soon as Kirk had dropped beside her, she spun on her toes and made her way carefully down the long room towards the glow stick in a sort of dance. She moved effortlessly, avoiding the protruding spears and swords, steering clear of the chests and pottery, and going around the fragile reed baskets in the middle of the room. When she finally reached the foot of the burial, she stood up with hands on her hips, flipped her hair back and turned towards Kirk. She gave him an evil smirk, daring him to do the same thing she just did.

 

With a glow stick in one hand, Kirk wound his way around the artifacts with less elegance, but effective nonetheless. He jumped over some artifacts and had to actually move a few of them. It was a miracle that he didn’t break anything. Uhura picked up her glow stick and resisted from smacking Kirk for his cheekiness.

 

“Get the Gift of the Gods and get out,” informed Kirk of their game plan. “The king should be holding it.”

 

The burial was similar to the one in Enterprise, complete with metal boat, sword and shield. However, behind the burial was a wooden mural of the Yggdrassil --- the tree of life, which was a common enough symbol in the Vendel Era. The metal boat sat on top of a raised wooden platform that was carved with the continuing roots of the Yggdrassil. The craftsmanship was immaculate. Surely, the king had paid a pretty penny to be buried with such grandeur.

 

“Hold this,” Uhura shoved her glow stick to Kirk and removed her boots. When she was in her socks, she rested a hand on the side of the metal boat. With a kick, she lifted herself up on her arm and quickly put her foot on either side of the boat. Straddling the boat, she pulled a plastic bag out of the pocket of her windbreaker. She opened it, held it out to Kirk and retrieved the glow stick. “Are you ready, director?”

 

“Punch it,” responded Kirk, holding the plastic ziplock bag open for the artifact.

 

The Gift of Gods was a corroded piece of metal-like object. Uhura carefully lifted each metacarpal off the artifact, while her other hand clutched the glow stick close to her. She gave the glow stick back and covered the artifact with her gloved hands. “Don’t breath,” she warned in a whisper.

 

With the precision acquired from her long hours at the laboratory, she gently lifted the Gift of the Gods from the burial and was moving it towards the bag. Suddenly, with both of them holding their breath, the Gift of the Gods cracked and crumbled into dust. The two stared at it in shock. They looked at each other in horror.

 

“What the fuck!” Kirk hollered.

 

“Clearly,” said a harnessed figure in the gloom, having recently gone down without their notice, “that was not the Gift of the Gods.” With a snap of a glow stick, Spock let it reveal his face.

 

“Spock,” Kirk nodded, seemingly ecstatic.

 

“Director,” nodded Spock back and made his way towards them.

 

Uhura had gotten off the boat and held up her hands. “I was being careful. This wasn’t my fault.”

 

“Was there anything about this burial that was different from the Enterprise burial?” asked Spock.

 

“The Yggdrassil,” Kirk answered. “Then there’s the amulet.”

 

“What amulet?!” asked Uhura, immediately scanning the glow stick over the burial. She saw it hidden in between the cracks of the leather armor. She lifted it out of the mess, which the wooden amulet had been stuck in for the past millennium. She dropped it into the plastic bag that was intended for the Gift of the Gods.

 

Spock and Kirk pored over the amulet, each throwing out observations and conclusions. Uhura seemed to be left out in this conversation. Rolling her eyes, she moved towards the reed baskets when she nearly slipped on the icy floor. Luckily, she was able to hang on to the metal boat, which didn’t even wobble from her weight. It was steady that it seemed to be nailed into the platform. Fine craftsmanship indeed!

 

The two men were immediately at her side, worried. Uhura directed their attention to the symbol, which at closer inspection had a hole that seemed to be the same size as the amulet. Quickly, Spock retrieved the amulet from the bag and placed it in the hole. Unlike the Indiana Jones movies, nothing remotely spectacular happened.

 

Uhura rolled her eyes, and without warning, kicked the amulet further in as Kirk yelled his disapproval. She ignored him. The two were being babies, while she was confidently in her element. The entire metal boat of the burial then shook and moved, revealing a hidden floor underneath. Like Sulu before her, Uhura leaped towards the cavity nearly landing on a very similar metal boat burial. Luckily, she was able to hang on to some well-preserved rope that hung on either side of the rectangular opening.

 

“Jump now, ask questions later?” chided Kirk as Spock silently climbed down using the roping across Uhura.

 

“We’re running out of time, _director_ ,” she answered.

 

The burial on the lower deck was starkly similar to the one above, including a clutched artifact.

 

“The Yggdrassil is upside down,” commented Kirk, looking around. The lower floor no longer had any artifacts apart from the burial itself. It was also significantly smaller, indicating that it was hidden from the rest of the floor and was only accessible through that one entrance.

 

But the other two paid him no heed. Spock had a plastic bag ready and Uhura straddled the boat, picking out the carpals. Instead of a highly corroded metal object, this one clutched an amorphous lump of crystal. When it caught the light from the glow stick, it sparkled magnificently as though it was congratulating them for finding it. Again, Uhura lifted the solid object into the bag. This time, it had stayed intact.

 

Spock locked the bag and held up the plastic. The Gift of the Gods continued to sparkle beautifully.

 

“You are a highly valued piece of quarts,” said Spock to the artifact. Kirk chuckled at Spock’s awe as Uhura nodded, familiar with archaeologists talking to their artifacts.

 

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” suggested Kirk.

 

As Spock struggled to stuff the bulky artifact into his windbreaker, Kirk went over to Uhura and playfully punched her on the arm. Uhura yelped at the contact. She was not a boy, damnit! It should have been obvious by now.

 

“Good job,” Kirk said with a wink.

 

Uhura’s hand shot up and smacked Kirk behind his head. “Thank you, _director_ ,” she said with a smile.

 

***

 

“Enterprise, this is Narada. Over,” the radio whizzed. Chekov looked at the radio from the tent entrance as it repeated itself. He turned to McCoy standing by Trench X. “Dr. McCoy, Narada is hailing us,” Chekov called out.

 

McCoy nodded and turned his attention back to Trench X, his arms crossed over his chest. They have all discussed the plan even before the rigging was constructed. It appeared that he was going to have to handle this all by himself.

 

“Nyota, this is Gaila,” said an unfamiliar voice through the radio. “Are you guys okay? Over.”

 

Chekov took a deep breath and entered the tent, unsure. Since Uhura had gone down the trench, her job was dumped onto Chekov. He was now their radio person and he’d been praying not to encounter a Norwegian-speaking comms personnel.

 

He pulled out the folding chair in front of the portable table where the radio sat, bleeping. Chekov sat and examined the blinking lights. Narada had been ping-ing their location via SONAR, but Sulu made sure that they weren’t going to be located. The Asian’s technological knowhow was amazing. Chekov suspected that he was taught by a Russian.

 

“You haven’t reported to Narada this morning. Is everything okay? Please respond. Over,” said Gaila.

 

Chekov placed the headset over his ears and made sure that the microphone was just below his mouth. He selected a switch from the control panel of their contraption and switched it on. A red light held steady beside it.

 

“Attention, Narada!” said Chekov, seriously. “This is Chekov from Enterprise. Do you read me? Over.”

 

“Who are you? Where’s Nyota? Over,” said another voice that was not Gaila.

 

“I repeat. This is Pavel Andreievich Chekov from Team Enterprise,” answered Chekov steadily.

 

Gaila’s voice returned asking about her friend. Although he suspected that she had been scared earlier, panic was now evident in her voice. Chekov answered that everything was fine and Uhura might be able to go back to the radio in a little while. After a few questions about the health of individual team members, Narada finally asked the ultimate question.

 

“Where are you now, Enterprise? Over,” asked Gaila.

 

Chekov checked his notes, making sure he wouldn’t make any mistake. Obediently, he told Narada the coordinates he had carefully written down.

 

“We believe that this is the site of the Kelvin Expedition. Over,” added Chekov. “We are retrieving the Gift of the Gods as we speak.”

 

The radio was silent for a while. Chekov patiently waited for Narada to process this important information. This was, after all, something Nero had coveted for the past weeks.

 

“Stay in your current location, Enterprise. Narada is sending a search and rescue party to retrieve you. Over and out.”

 

Chekov scoffed. They didn’t even give him the chance to properly thank them. He turned off the switch and the red light next to it died. He took off the headset a little reluctantly as the earmuffs made his ears warm. Standing, Chekov turned around, and then found that at the tent entrance, the Enterprise gathered.

 

Each smiled at him proudly and Mr. Scott even gave him a thumbs-up. As Chekov’s cheeks reddened embarrassingly, Kirk led the team into cheering on Chekov.

 

*****


	12. Chapter Ten

  


  
At the edge of the ice shelf, the Bell 412 hovered a few inches above the surface, without fully landing. Fine snow whirled around it spectacularly, like an upside down snowfall. The doors opened and a handful of white clad guards jumped out. They knelt on the ground, clutching their _Kalashnikov_ on the ready. When all seemed safe, two more guards came out, dragging a haggard looking Pike between them. The Enterprise site director looked his age, blood running down his temple and on the side of his mouth. Weak and in handcuffs, Pike leaned his weight on his escorts.

 

The last to descend was Nero, wearing his malicious intent on his sleeve. For a highly celebrated scholar, his deception was almost unbelievable. Yet, his face wore no remorse for what he was about to do. It was as if Nero had resigned himself that he was no longer an archaeologist. The moment he set foot on Edge Island, he had become a treasure hunter.

 

The chopper rose into the sky and the snow subsided. Nero, clad in all black, ran his fingers through his thick dark wavy hair. His confidence and air of triumph contrasted with Pike’s nearly fallen form.

 

Nero put his hands on his hips and looked around. His gaze zeroed in on the black tarp amidst the snow with a large white X painted on top. He called for the guards to follow him to the edge. Unable to stand for long periods of time and shaking from the cold, Pike knelt on the side as if in prayer. When asked to confirm if it was indeed Trench X, the other man remained silent. Nero met this with a blow on Pike’s head, sending the old professor onto the ground. Without mercy, Nero kicked him on the stomach. Pike’s groans filled the air.

 

Nero then ordered the guards to remove the tarp off the ground, his anticipation trying to burst out of him. He could feel it, the Gift of the Gods in his grasp. It would definitely sell very well in the black market. But what was revealed to him underneath the cover was more snow. Immediately, Nero looked around the barren wasteland of white and a few outcrops in wary and suspicion. No one was there.

 

Then…

 

In successive loud explosions, the snow blasted around them in a semi-circle, forcing them to huddle together. The shelf shook unsteadily and shifted underneath them, which sent the guards to their feet. Finding strength out of nowhere, Pike heaved himself up and jumped onto the tarp. A rope that had been tied to one corner of the tarp went taut and seemed to be attached to one of the innocent outcrops. As the ice shelf where Nero and his men stood separated from the main shelf, the tarp swiftly moved across the snow, with Pike in the ride. 

 

Quick on his feet, Nero ran towards the quickly departing tarp and dived onto it, clutching his escaping prisoner tight. He would not be played at!

 

Pike tried to kick Nero loose, but the treasure hunter only held on strongly, scratching Pike’s wrinkled skin. When the tarp had reached the outcrop, Kirk suddenly jumped from behind.

 

But Nero still had cards with him. He pulled a revolver from his windbreaker and pressed it on Pike’s temple. Kirk directed his _Kalashnikov_ at Nero, in reflexive response.

 

“Hand over the Gift of the Gods. Or your director gets it,” said Nero, obviously inspired by old western movies.

 

“It’s over, Nero,” said Kirk. “Give it up.”

 

Pike wore the resolute look of one who had accepted that death was eminent.

 

The clock ticked and finally, Kirk gradually lowered his weapon to the ground and kicked it away. “Fine. Gift of the Gods for Pike.”

 

Nero nodded. “Lead the way.”

 

And so he did. Kirk walked on ahead on the tundra, a little distantly followed an apprehensive Nero and a weakened Pike.

 

“Why are you doing this?” asked Kirk. “After everything that the Federation did for you---”

 

“You stupid boy!” yelled Nero. Kirk fought his smirk --- oh, how easy it was to unnerve the bastard. “The Federation didn’t do anything for me or my family. Your precious Federation is the greatest treasure hunter nest of all time.”

 

Kirk looked over his shoulder --- at Nero’s insanity.

 

“Romulus was an accident,” prompted Kirk.

 

Bitterly, Nero laughed. “It was no accident, boy. Just like your father’s death wasn’t an accident. You have no idea what your Federation gets away with. Lowered death rates! Rescued artefacts! Ha! Those were lies, Kirk. But you know what the biggest lie is? It’s how the Federation kept itself squeaky clean. You’d be surprised how many deaths the Federation had covered up. They called it unfortunate accidents, and they leave you with nothing but piles of corpses!”

 

Kirk didn’t reply. So, Nero went on.

 

“I knew the treasure hunters were coming. We sent a distress call to the Federation. And they did _nothing!_ The treasure hunters massacred my team. The Federation let my wife die! _Your_ Federation, Kirk. I survived and I vowed that your Federation will _pay_.”

 

Kirk stopped in his tracks just at the edge of an open trench --- the true Trench X.

 

“Down there’s the Gift of the Gods. Now hand over Pike,” demanded Kirk.

 

“Not so fast, boy,” said Nero, refusing to let his hold on Pike falter. “I’m not going down there without insurance.”

 

Nero made a move to shove Pike down the trench. Pike would have fallen four meters down to the ledge if Kirk hadn’t grabbed him. Dangling on the side, Pike’s feet found the ladder.

 

“You okay, professor?” asked Kirk quietly.

 

“This is stupid, Jim,” hissed Pike.

 

Nero pointed the revolver at Kirk, “Get down there.”

 

The three then reached the unexcavated ledge. At the edge of this was a rope ladder that led into the wreckage. Pike slowly but surely went down, groaning. Kirk knew that the old man had broken a rib or two. He desperately needed medical attention, but Pike seemed as unbeatable as weed.

 

Kirk led them farther into the ship, holding a glow stick above him. When the light revealed the interior of the vessel, Nero was just in much awe as Pike over the wealth of burial goods in the long chamber.

 

“This is incredible. I never knew George had found all this,” Pike said almost to himself.

 

Needing to properly distract Nero by the finds, so he wouldn’t be able to hear the rumble of the truck, Kirk pointed the glow stick at the gloom. “That’s not all. The good stuffs at the end of this.” He looked squarely at Nero and inclined his head. “Follow me.”

 

***

 

From behind an outcrop, Enterprise watched quietly as Kirk led Nero to Trench X.

 

Scott turned to Chekov. “Your team is out there, laddie. Make me proud,” he said seriously, patting the younger man’s back in encouragement.

 

“Yes, Mr. Scott,” answered Chekov, checking his sniper riffle. “This is not my first time.”

 

Of course, Chekov had been taught to hunt. In fact, he’d been taught many things that he didn’t think would apply to archaeology as he had assumed. He quickly learned that many of his skills could be useful in the discipline.

 

Chekov carefully scanned the area through the lens of the sniper scope. Mr. Scott was right. His team was his family and he would not let them down. With the lives of Enterprise hanging in the balance, Chekov calmed his excitement down a notch. He cleared his mind and steadied his hold on the weapon. Mr. Scott had let him choose from the crate and he was mildly surprised that it contained a sniper riffle. He had gleefully selected it, since he was sure to fail in hand-to-hand combat. That was simply not in his area of expertise. Mr. Scott was doubtful at first. But after Chekov had demonstrated his mastery on a few empty bottles of liquor, Mr. Scott had even helped Chekov pick a perfect spot for his task.

 

Scott sat with his back against the outcrop, remembering Tartessos. Back then, he had been helpless. Albeit he was merely an apprentice quartermaster, he felt guilty that he alone had survived the tragedy. At the back of his mind, he thought that it would have proper for him to die with his team.

 

Perhaps it was Scott’s destiny to survive and become a full-fledge quartermaster. Fate had saved him so that he could assist all the other tragic excavations that had come before Enterprise. Still, Scott felt a deep connection with Enterprise. He had been careful about his feelings since he knew full well that getting attached to people was disastrous. Enterprise had crept into his heart like a snake and lodged itself securely in Scott’s psyche without his notice. It was too late now. He really liked Enterprise. And he wasn’t going to let them fall without at least attempting to fight back.

 

Scott nodded, satisfied, and waited.

 

On another outcrop, a distance away, McCoy strapped on a ribbon with a red cross on his arm. Two things were slung across his person. One of them was attached to the med kit, and on top of that strap was another better-made strap that was hooked to an AK-47. He had to admit that this was rather ironic.

 

McCoy had never thought that archaeology was going to be this dirty. This was proving to be less fun than what he had expected. It was completely different from the outback excavations. He didn’t find the need to relate his experience with angry aborigines who firmly believed that their excavation was merely treasure hunting. Back then, the aborigines had arrows and blow guns, which was also quite lethal. But this time, McCoy was armed with an actual riffle. He fairly knew that treasure hunters do _not_ negotiate.

 

Of course, there was Jim to blame. _Damn you, kid!_ There was just no stopping Kirk when he had set his mind to something. He swore that if he died, he was going to come back as a ghost and haunt Jim for the rest of his life and the next.

 

In the cold, he clutched his windbreaker around him and waited, calmly and patiently.

 

Still, on another outcrop, Sulu hid by himself. He was feeling smug by the well-orchestrated explosives. Admittedly, it was Chekov who cooked up the formulae, using whatever supplies they had. But it was Sulu who set it up and made sure that the ice shelf would fall.

 

Kirk was right about Nero making it out alive, which was why he made Plan A.2. Sulu nodded his approval at their site director’s prophetic vision. He had even taken Sulu aside.

 

“Sulu, if it comes to a point where you’d have to choose between me and the Enterprise,” said Kirk seriously, “just get the hell out of here.”

 

Despite his irritation, Sulu nodded. What the hell did he think they are?! They were archaeologists who made an oath. _No man left behind_.

 

Besides, it was not like Sulu hadn’t made sure that there was a back-up plan for the back-up plan. Fuck, this better worked.

 

***

 

It may seem like Uhura had been left behind, because she was a girl and should play no part in the manly action.

 

Her boots dug into the snow at Whale’s Point. She had been walking for what felt like hours, hoping to gods that she wasn’t lost. Just to make sure, she pulled out the GPS that Sulu had given her.

 

The device bleeped, indicating that she had reached her destination.

 

Uhura stood at the edge of Whale’s Point, the end of Thief Fjord. She faintly remembered the pilot talking about it back when they were brought into the island. Kirk didn’t leave anything to chance and had apparently developed a real fear of bears. He had given her a _Kalashnikov_ for defense.

 

“I know they’re cute, but they can get really nasty. If they come at you, just shoot,” he ordered her.

 

It didn’t really sit well with her since shooting bears down in the Nature Reserve was illegal. But Kirk had insisted that it was better than being bear fodder.

 

Uhura set her backpack down. Damn shit was heavy! She opened the pack and pulled out a portable radio, which was happily tweaked by Sulu. It wasn’t a real radio though. It was more of a beacon that Sulu had calibrated to the emergency radio signal of the Norwegian airbase from Svalbard. It was an old technology that was developed by the research groups who were stationed in Edge Island in the 80s since the arctic research teams had gotten into massive amounts of emergencies that the Norwegian military had arranged for the transponder. It used to be calibrated to the mainland, but that was hours away. And they needed help, fast.

 

The last team that had used the bunker had graciously left them this beacon. Uhura had found it in her room. Not knowing what it was, she was using it as a sort of footstool. It was only with them because she had accidentally stowed it with her stuff during their evacuation. When Sulu found it, he was so grateful that he had tried to give her a hug and a kiss. She smacked him on the side of his head, while McCoy chuckled from the side.

 

Uhura’s instructions were simple: get to Whale’s Point and turn on the transmitter. She set the yellow square equipment down on the snow and flicked the switch on. The transmitter came to life, blinking and bleeping.

 

Looking out to sea, she shielded her eyes from the sun with her gloved hand. Uhura wondered if the team was doing alright. A chopper had flown above her earlier, with the markings of Narada on the side. She was sure that it carried Pike and Nero, as well several other bad elements she tried not to think about.

 

Before she left, Uhura felt the need to tie up loose ends, just in case it was truly the end. She had started with Spock, for whom she thought she didn’t have a lot of things to say. It turned out that she was wrong.

 

“… So, that’s why I really liked you,” she said at the end of her long story. “But I don’t really like you now. But I still like you as a colleague. I think you’re a great researcher.”

 

Spock nodded, a little perplexed.

 

“I am… glad that you have chosen to share your thoughts with me,” he said carefully. Then he tried to smile. Uhura thought it was a little more than creepy. “You are a great archaeologist, Dr. Uhura. It is my pleasure to have served with you.”

 

They nodded at each other. After an extremely awkward pause, they walked away.

 

She then proceeded to the next agenda. McCoy was a man of a few words and, like a wild, untamed animal, communicated via varying degrees of growling. Uhura thought it was going to be easy. But it turned out that she was dead wrong, again.

 

“Hmmm…” said McCoy when Uhura approached him.

 

Uhura crossed her arms over her chest. There were things that needed to be said, but she was finding herself at a loss, like McCoy’s natural self.

 

“I don’t know if I like chess,” she ended up saying. It was one of their better moments. And it was definitely their most quiet moment, where Uhura didn’t feel the need to smack anyone.

 

McCoy didn’t look up from assembling the medical kit. “Hmmm.”

 

Uhura raised an eyebrow. This was going nowhere. _Obviously_. She spun on her heels and was about to leave the tent where McCoy was working.

 

“You really want to try chess?” asked McCoy as casually as ever.

 

Uhura looked over her shoulder and shrugged.

 

“There’s a chess club up at Wellington,” McCoy heaved himself off the folding chair with a sigh. “It’s pretty good. It might teach you a thing or two.”

 

The doctor turned his back to her and seemed to busy with supplies. Uhura stared at him squarely, and squinted.

 

“I did beat you,” reminded Uhura. “Twice.”

 

McCoy turned around, exasperated. “That was beginner’s luck!” he hollered characteristically, and moved forward. He wasn’t giving it up!

 

Uhura rolled her eyes. “Fine!” she surrendered. “We’re back to a clean slate. But, the next game counts. So you had better be back.”

 

McCoy turned his gaze away. It was clearly a bit much for the doctor. Uhura sighed, and made to leave again.

 

“Hey,” McCoy called. “Take this.” He threw a small square bag with a red cross on the side at her.

 

Uhura just caught it as it hit her on the arm. She was going to thank him, but she was afraid that he’d burst out crying. He was tensed enough as it was.

 

Shaking thoughts and doubts out of her head, she was sure that Enterprise would be okay. Besides, they had the most arrogant, egotistical site director in the history of mankind. Kirk would boldly go to where no archaeologist has gone before.

 

And Uhura was damn proud of him.

 

***

 

“Follow me,” said Kirk as he led the way into the gloom.

 

At the end of the chamber, lying on a metal boat was the old king dressed for war. Clutched between his fingers was a glittering object.

 

“The Gift of the Gods,” gasped Pike, eyes wide.

 

Nero held Pike back and placed the revolver to the old man’s ribs.

 

“Give it to me,” ordered Nero, with a wild animalistic look.

 

Kirk glared in repressed fury and did as he was told. Pike tensed as Kirk lowered the glow stick on the burial. He used both his hands to take the artifact and held it out to Nero like an offering to an emperor, making sure that the artifact caught the light so it sparkled invitingly. Inching his way closer to Nero, Kirk made certain that he had his back to the side of the long chamber near the gap above.

 

Kirk grinned, “You want this?”

 

“Hand it over, boy!” roared Nero in wrath.

 

“As you wish,” said Kirk.

 

Nero’s eyes were locked in on the artifact as Kirk threw it up into the air. In his bid to save the artifact from hitting the floor, Nero shoved Pike back. The old man tipped over and landed at the foot of the metal boat. As Nero dived in for the artifact, Kirk quickly pulled Pike up and dragged him along the chamber, towards the awaiting opening.

 

The Gift of the Gods hit the floor with a high-pitched crash and smashed into tiny pieces, glittering on the oak floor like diamonds. Nero knelt over the remains of the artifact, aghast. He set down the revolver, took off his gloves and gathered the pieces in together. Then, he stopped, realizing that the artifact felt cold on pads of fingers and… _melted!_

 

It was ice. In one of the bigger chunks, there was a small card where someone had scribbled: _Hello!_

 

“ _Kiiiiiiiirk!_ ” His roar echoed through the darkness like a ruthless tempest in a tunnel.

 

***

 

Pike groaned and fell on his knees. Fuck, this was not the time to be an old man! Kirk lifted Pike off from his fallen form, feeling the blood on the other’s torso. In the dark, Pike had sliced himself on one of the protruding metal weapons scattered on the deck. He was losing blood by gallons!

 

“Leave me. Save yourself,” wheezed Pike in a harsh whispered breath. “George would have been proud of you, Jim. He would have been proud.”

 

“ _Bullshit!_ ”

 

Behind them, Nero had yelled out his name, livid. Kirk could see Nero searching for his revolver, but the glow stick had lodged itself deeper into the boat when Pike had fallen on it. Still, Kirk was not going to take chances.

 

“Come on, Pike,” Kirk encouraged, arranging his hold of him.

 

Out of desperation, Nero pulled one of the swords and slashed the air in hopeless aim. Kirk grabbed at anything he could feel, finally curling his fingers around a circular object. He stepped forward just as Nero’s sword landed on the shield.

 

Nero staggered back, surprised. But he quickly recovered, instantly delivering another swing at Kirk’s side that sent the shield to the ground. Kirk quickly rummaged for another weapon as Nero followed the noise he was causing. This time, he had luckily found the hilt of a sword. Pushing himself forward, Kirk met Nero’s blade with his own. Dimly aware of the excellent preservation of the weapons, Nero and Kirk sparred, knocking artifacts from their in-situ position.

 

Low on the ground, Pike staggered towards the light from the gap.

 

Younger and stronger, Kirk had pinned Nero to the floor. The tip of Kirk’s blade pressed on Nero’s heart.

 

“No!” Pike yelled. “Don’t, Jim,” said Pike like a warning --- that a man like Nero deserved to live.

 

But Pike was right. Kirk would gain nothing by killing the treasure hunter.

 

“The Federation will take care of you,” said Kirk instead. He dropped the sword to the floor and joined Pike at the opening.

 

But Nero had not finished. Above him was a stash of bows and arrows --- he made a reach for it.

 

It was already too late when Kirk heard the twang of a string. _Shit!_

 

Using the last of his strength, Pike shoved Kirk aside as he let his body take the arrow --- the projectile point drove itself deep into Pike’s flesh. Kirk held on to Pike, who was falling to his knees for perhaps the very last time.

 

As Nero scavenged for another arrow, Kirk’s adrenalin rush was kicking in. He set Pike down on the oak floor and ran towards the noise. Nero was going to _die_.

 

But before Kirk could reach Nero, a loud gunshot resonated in the room.

 

In the darkness, Nero screamed in agony. Kirk’s head instantly snapped towards the opening, and underneath the light, he found Spock, standing with the revolver still pointed at Nero’s fallen figure, the epitome of a heartless Valkyrie.

 

***

 

One of the many reasons treasure hunters were a formidable enemy was their practice of hunting in packs. So it wasn’t quite as shocking that two choppers arrived and delivered more armed guards.

 

“Eighteen,” whispered Chekov to Scott’s side.

 

Scott indicated the number to McCoy and Sulu’s direction with his hands.

 

Enterprise maintained their positions, anxious as they watched the guards aimlessly stood, waiting for their leader. As though worried of Nero’s delay, one of the men tried to radio him, but failed to make contact.

 

While Enterprise was formulating their plans of action earlier, Kirk had warned them not to shoot unless it was absolutely necessary, citing Federation rules that Spock had supplemented. Yet, it was imperative that Nero’s minions should not reach Trench X. Scott was in command of the operations, while Kirk and Spock dealt with Nero.

 

The bastard should be in Jim’s clutches by now, Scott happily mused. He just barely stopped himself from sniggering as he imagined Nero’s face when he’d seen the little message Scott had left within the fake Gift of the Gods. It had been his and Sulu’s masterpiece. Scott was sure that the Asian was thinking the same thing.

 

Then, a distant rumbling of engines reached the team’s ears. With discreet peeks, they saw their truck on its way back from Trench X. Their adventure was nearly at an end!

 

“Open fire!” yelled one of the guards.

 

The guards emptied their magazines at the approaching vehicle. Under fire, the truck started to swerve on the ice.

 

It was Scott’s turn to yell. “Now!”

 

Enterprise leaped out of hiding and fired back at the treasure hunters. Caught unaware and with the terrain against them, the treasure hunters dropped on the ground in sequence. Chekov expertly downed a handful, as the rest of the team took their share. Within minutes, it was over.

 

When the truck stopped behind them, McCoy rushed into the back of the vehicle, remembering clearly that their site director had been beaten to a pulp. But what greeted him was the sight of Pike’s ashen face and profusely bleeding wounds. McCoy dropped his weapon and immediately pulled out the med kit on his hip. Pike would _not_ die on his watch, damnit!

 

While McCoy yelled commands at Sulu, Kirk and Spock joined the rest of Enterprise, confident to leave the older man with the deft hands of the skilled doctor. The four of them silently watched the fallen bodies as blood stained the snow.

 

“That’s for Tartessos,” said Scott with hardened eyes.

 

“Is it over?” asked Chekov quietly.

 

Kirk shook his head bitterly. “Nope. We still have to take care of Narada.”

 

At the front of the pack, Kirk led his team into the truck, with Spock at his side.

 

***

 

Narada stayed on high alert as their truck approached the encampment. They needed to be careful --- it wasn’t just their lives that were at stake as they had discovered fairly recently.

 

Pike, in the moments of consciousness, was able to relay that he wasn’t the only prisoner Nero and his men had taken. The ex-archaeologist had gone stark mad, taking the other teams into Narada by force and kept them locked in. After leaving McCoy and Pike back at the Enterprise bunker, Kirk promptly decided to take on Narada and save the other teams.

 

As Spock parked behind the outcrop, Chekov yelled from the back, “Sir, Uhura has left.”

 

“Thank you, Chekov.” Then Spock turned to Jim. “Is this wise, director?” he asked, hands gripping the wheel as his keen eyes raked over Narada through the windshield.

 

“We can’t just save ourselves and bail out of here,” answered Kirk, who was also inspecting the encampment. “We’re archaeologists, we took an oath: no man left behind.”

 

He reached out a hand into the back, accepting the radio’s receiver from Chekov. “Hail them. Now.”

 

“They’re hearing us, Jim,” said Sulu.

 

“This is James T. Kirk, from Enterprise,” he said, steadily. “Your base is compromised. Under the Federation’s constitution, you are allowed to peacefully surrender to us and release the archaeologists. In doing so, you will remain unharmed.”

 

Kirk repeated his message two more times, as the Federation’s constitution had stated. But the radio remained silent. He then turned to Spock.

 

“I should try one more time,” Kirk mused. “Show some compassion.”

 

“No,” said Spock firmly. “Not this time.”

 

“We will _never_ surrender to the Federation,” said the radio.

 

Kirk smirked. “You got it.” He turned to the back of the truck. “Arm the bombs. Fire everything we’ve got.”

 

“You bet your ass, director,” said Scott. He held the master detonator pad on his lap like a favorite toy. In front of him, Sulu had a similar device on his lap, and was looking at it suspiciously. This was the quartermasters’ greatest accomplishment. And Scott was damn _proud_ of it.

 

Scott merrily flicked the seven switches one by one. So did Sulu, only with less mirth.

 

The packed earth under the encampment shook as the detonators, which the quartermasters had stealthily added during construction, blew up in loud succession. Some of the shallower ones sprayed dirt, snow and ice into the air like a fountain. Fire had spread around the tents --- several columns of black smoke rose to the sky.

 

“Signal’s up,” said Kirk from the front. He and Spock were the only ones who had front row seats to witness the destruction of the treasure hunters’ nest.

 

“Ah, the quartermasters are free,” approved Scott.

 

“Quartermasters are badass,” concluded Sulu with a pleased nod.

 

“We did warn ‘em, didn’t we?” shrugged Scott, who had no pity towards treasure hunters.

 

“Take us there, Spock,” ordered Kirk.

 

Spock revved up the engine and drove them closer to the burning Narada. As they came closer, one of the guards knelt at the edge of the embankment and lifted a heavy RPG over his shoulder. Another turned up to help his comrade.

 

“Fuck,” hissed Spock, turning the wheel as fast as he could.

 

The truck shook at the impact when the propelled grenade hit the ground, scattering snow all over. It barely missed them. Immediately, Kirk pulled out a sniper rifle from under the seat, and pulled himself up to perch on the side window’s frame, taking aim. Spock avoided another attack, which forced Kirk to hold on for his dear life. It impressed him though --- of the man’s driving skills, but he needed to focus on the task at hand.

 

“Keep her steady, Spock,” said Kirk, aiming the weapon at the guards. Spock floored the gas pedal and went straight for the Narada. Kirk had a very small window of opportunity before another rocket grenade was lunched at them. Without hesitation, Kirk pulled the trigger, rapidly getting rid of one guard before taking down the other.

 

The guards fell to the ground and stumbled down the slope, motionless.

 

“Good shot, director,” said Spock approvingly. Kirk covered his blush with a grin and a wink.

 

Guided by the smoke column, a group of helicopters appeared in the sky, circling the encampment. They were military grade as well, but this time, they bore the mark of the Norwegian government. Ropes dropped down from the open doors and paratroopers descended into the decaying Narada.

 

At the back of the truck, the radio bleeped.

 

“Hey boys,” came Uhura’s cheery voice.

 

*****


	13. Epilogue

  


  


  
 

Chekov was in the men’s toilet, pacing in frenzied steps and could barely contain his nervousness. In fact, Chekov felt that this was far worse than the last time. Staring at his haggard reflection, he opened his mouth to rehearse his lines. But no sound came out, except for a deep sigh. _Padonok!_ What had he gotten himself into?!

 

After splashing his face with water, drying up on some paper towels, he straightened his formal jacket and tried to give a bright smile. He had to look presentable, or else, Uhura would give him another long lecture.

 

“Punch it!” he told himself. 

 

Chekov pushed the door open and walked down the hall. He expertly hid his nervousness, putting his hands into his pockets in case they betrayed him.

 

At the end of the hall was the main lobby of the museum. When Chekov stepped through the fancy threshold, he was attacked by flashing cameras from maybe twenty different periodicals, both local and international. The reporters bombarded him with questions, talking over each other that Chekov couldn’t make out what they were saying.

 

“It’s a great honor to be part of Enterprise,” he said, just as he had rehearsed it. Plus, he smiled winningly. Uhura had said that his right side was his best side. He didn’t understand what that meant but he turned his right side towards them anyway.

 

A group of girls managed to break out of the throng of reporters. Some swooned and the rest were screaming his name, telling him that he was very attractive. They also asked if he had a girlfriend. Chekov shook his head, which seemed to only excite the girls even more.

 

Luckily, McCoy had just pushed through the lobby from the fire exit. The mass of reporters left Chekov and surrounded the doctor, who gave them his signature scowl. This only served to heighten the degree of flashing. He fought his way through the crowd and emerged at Chekov’s side of the lobby.

 

“Chekov!” he hollered from behind Chekov’s fans.

 

Chekov bowed apologetically to the girls as McCoy caught his arm and pulled him into the interior of the Museum.

 

“The reporters think your scowl is cute,” teased Chekov.

 

“Those girls are in love with you,” McCoy threw right back at Chekov.

 

By the doors that lead into the Museum’s main exhibit areas, Scott sat behind a long table laden with copies of his book: _The Life and Times of Nessie, The Misunderstood Monster_. A long line that started somewhere, possibly beyond the Museum’s entrance, ended in front of Scott. He scribbled his signature on the front page and gave the book back to an adoring fan.

 

“Oi!” Scott grinned and stood up. He was wearing a smart shirt with a jacket and a kilt. He turned to a well-dressed woman behind him. “I got to go. But I’ll be back after Kirk’s presentation.” The woman nodded and addressed Scott’s fans.

 

“You got an assistant?” asked McCoy incredulously.

 

“No, lad. That’s my publisher,” explained Scott as they approached the main doors. Guards stood in front of it preventing the public from entering. Kirk’s special session, after all, was organized by the Federation primarily for archaeologists. When the website had published the schedule and the venue, the public had showed up _en masse_.

 

“You have a lot of fans, Mr. Scott,” observed Chekov as they strode down the much quieter hallway. They did receive grateful nods and a lot of smiles from colleagues.

 

“You didn’t see Sulu’s fans, lad. It was pandemonium!” said Scott. “Speak of the devil...”

 

Sulu, also in a suit, was standing at the entrance to the Plenary Hall, stretching his wrist.

 

“You okay?” asked McCoy concerned.

 

“It’s all the autograph signing. It’s a lot of work,” said Sulu, wincing in pain. “You could have worn something better than that McCoy.”

 

McCoy looked defensive. “All they’re getting are winter jeans and a nice shirt,” he said. “Besides, this jacket is real fine leather.”

 

“Oh yeah,” nodded Scott. “Like my shoes!”

 

McCoy started to growl at Scott.

 

“How’s Pike?” Sulu asked.

 

“He’s recovering fine. He could be shipped out of here by next week,” answered McCoy, who had personally seen to Pike’s medical treatments.

 

Uhura appeared from behind them, gleaming in an all black shift from _Oscar dela Renta_. “Wow. You guys cleaned up nice,” she said smiling. Of course, they had. She had personally orchestrated it.

 

“That’s a fierce looking kilt, Scott,” she complimented.

 

Scotty beamed. “It’s my family’s colors. And you’re looking fine yourself, Dr. Uhura.”

 

She seemed to glow even more. “Oh this little thing,” she mocked. It was obviously new and noticeably couture. “I just picked it up.”

 

The men knew that she probably had it made especially for the event but chose not to react out of sheer fear. The team was quite thankful that Uhura had handled the public side of things. But she was a mean dictator --- they didn’t want to cross her.

 

“Let’s go. Jim’s waiting,” she said.

 

“He’s here?!” the men exclaimed in unison.

 

 At the foot of the stage, Kirk waited for Spock to answer his call.

 

“Hey,” he said, once he heard Spock’s voice. “I got here early, like I promised.” He looked up at Enterprise and waved at them. “Spock, I’m wearing a suit for fuck’s sake! What more do you want?...Sulu’s fixed the projector… The doors are still broken. And that wasn’t my fault --- Hang on.”

 

“Where’s the hobglobin?” asked McCoy as the team sat down in the front row.

 

“He’s not coming. He’s got this family emergency,” said Kirk quickly, then turned back to the phone. “Bones’ been asking about you… How’s the family? Everything good?” There was worry in Kirk’s voice that made McCoy roll his eyes. Kirk caught it and shrugged, walking away.

 

“I gotta go. The show’s about to start,” he said a little sadly. “What time are you flying in?” Kirk jerked his arm, pushing his sleeve back and revealing a shiny new watch. “I’ll pick you up… Okay, fine. I’ll meet you at the hotel… Great. See you soon, gorgeous.”

 

Kirk hung up and ascended the stairs to the stage. Archaeologists from all over the world gathered in the Plenary Hall once again. But this time, it was to see James T. Kirk. He flashed them a smirk.

 

The United Federation of Archaeologists logo showed up behind Kirk as he stood behind the podium. Finally, the lights dimmed. Although Dr. Barnett had offered, Kirk had refused to be introduced. Besides, everyone already knew about Enterprise’s adventures. When Sulu’s blog crashed, because the servers couldn’t handle the hits, the world media shortly followed. The Edge Island excavations were thrust into the limelight.

 

Unknown to all but the team, the media attention was intentional. The world must know about the dangers they faced in every fieldwork. Archaeologists would no longer die in secret. At first, the Federation rebuffed the efforts, earning Sulu a reprimand. But the media helped their cause. Later, the Federation offered a formal but private apology to Sulu and decided that if they couldn’t beat them, then they’d seize control instead. Still, the Federation had seen the error of its ways and moved to make a safer place for archaeologists. The team was also invited to join a workshop to amend the Federation’s constitution regarding media relations. It was the beginning of a new era for archaeology, just like what happened after the Kelvin Expedition.

 

Enterprise was at the forefront of an age where teams like the Tartessos would be honored for their deeds, and their efforts to remain true to their oath would be celebrated. A monument for Tartessos was being erected, and Scott was only too happy to oversee it.

 

Kirk looked over at his team proudly. Enterprise had served him well.

 

“Ice, the final frontier,” said Kirk at the microphone in front of him; at his back, images of the Edge Island excavation flashed on the white screen.

 

“These are the voyages of the excavation team, Enterprise.” The Enterprise team photo appeared on the screen. Standing on the snow, the bunker with NCC-1701 on the roof was behind them.

 

“Our ongoing mission: to explore the archaeology of this strange new world…” A photo of the Enterprise boat burial appeared on the screen. Chekov was suspended on the rope, with Sulu on the permafrost layer.

 

 “… to seek out new life ways and new civilizations…” It was accompanied with a bird’s eye view shot of the Trench X burial.

 

The next photo showed the team from the Kelvin Expedition, happy and busy. George Kirk smiled at the camera, with an unknown old man beside him. On the other side of George was a tall dark-haired girl; while in front of them was a young Pike.

 

“… to boldly go where no one has gone before.”

 

***

 

A man in a white radioactive suit entered the room with a continuous ring resonating from within the protection gear. He ignored the incessant sound as he crossed the room and carefully placed the thick metal suitcase on the table. Leaning forward, he removed his helmet, and once he could breath more freely, he shook his head, making his hair sway. Then, he carried on stripping off the rest of the suit.

 

Once he was liberated, he pulled out his mobile from his trousers’ pocket. He was about to glare at the infernal device, but stopped as soon as he read the name of the caller. He couldn’t help but smile. Putting the earpiece into his ear, he turned on the Bluetooth and placed his mobile back into his pocket.

 

“Jim,” Spock greeted as he took out five rectangular-shaped plastic devices from his duffel bag. “Good. Are you presentable?” he asked, amused. He then walked to the nearest window, “Has the equipment in the Plenary Hall been repaired?” and placed one of the devices by the wall. “That---”

 

As he waited for Jim to speak with McCoy, Spock went to the other end of the room and did the same, “My family is in good health, Jim. Thank you for your inquiry.” He climbed up the table, “Eight forty-five in the evening,” then stuck the device on the ceiling. “That is unnecessary,” he interrupted as he descended back on the floor. “Yes, at the hotel… Farewell.”

 

Spock took off the earpiece while he went back to work, gathering more of the plastic device from his bag and walked out of the office. He threaded through the hall, planning to attach three of the device in each of the other rooms.

 

The plan hadn’t been perfect, but in the end, it worked out to his favor. His father’s orders were very clear and Spock understood what was at stake. As the heir apparent to the House of Atreides, he would fulfill his grandfather’s mission, no matter what the cost.

 

The House of Atreides was one of the founding members of the Organization, whose aim was to infinitely control the world in shadows --- to have the world dance in their palms. In order to do this, the Organization collected mythical artefacts that could change the view of the world as it was.

 

Information, that was what the Organization controlled.

 

However, due to the actions of Hjalmar Evard Stolpe, their House had been shunned and demoted to the lowest ranks. In order to rectify this, Prime had devised plans to return the glory of their House. Each key member of their family had been given different tasks to fulfill for years and years to come, and only to end when everything they had done had come together. Prime’s role was to search for the Gift of the Gods. He had planned to offer it to the Organization to elevate their status once more.

 

His grandfather, whose true name was Spock Onela Stolpe, had searched the world for someone to lead a quest for the Gift of the Gods. And he had found George Kirk. Unfortunately, they had failed…

 

… until Spock stepped into his role, patiently planting seeds for many years.

 

It certainly was not luck, nor coincidence that he had met Christopher Pike.

 

Even before their first meeting in the joint project of the archaeological departments of University of Paris and University of Heidelberg, the House of Atreides had already chosen Pike for a role that he would never realize. Being one of the promising apprentices of George Kirk, the elders of the House had groomed Pike to become their unknowing puppet.

 

After the disaster of the Kelvin Expedition, the survivors were left with no jobs and their license as archaeologists was about to be revoked by the Federation. The elders paid Heidelberg University to give Pike a teaching position and have him finish his doctoral degree. As years passed, Pike had received a steady promotion in the university, slowly rising up in the academic ranks.

 

On the other hand, as Spock grew, the elders had drilled the grand scheme into his mind.

 

Then, the time to meet Pike had finally come. So it began.

 

It had been almost too easy to manipulate the older man, as Pike was desperate to search for the exact location of the Kelvin Expedition. Spock, of course, already knew where it was, but with the eyes and ears of the Federation, he had to be very vigilant. To avoid suspicion, Spock had, little by little, anonymously fed Pike with information that could lead the man to the location of the Gift of the Gods, which included the resurfacing of the Stolpe monograph and Hammerfest.

 

The Hammerfest excavation was to put Pike on the pedestal for the Federation to shift their attention from Remus “Nero” Hobus, especially after the accident that had occurred at Romulus site. The unfortunate incident had turned to the House’s favor. It was then that Spock sent Pike the transceiver, which would directly lead him to the Kelvin site.

 

But another obstacle had materialized, and that was in the form of the discovery of the wooden planks on the ice surface of Thief Fjord. Although the matter had not worried Spock since it had urged Pike to search for Kelvin, he had been forced to be more watchful and alert, especially when Pike had insisted that Jim join the rescue excavation as part of their team.

 

Just like George Kirk, who Spock only knew through Prime’s chronicles and because he himself had read the journal that was in Pike’s possession, Jim had a keen and sharp mind.

 

He had made a mistake of not anticipating someone as perceptive as Jim. During his presentation in the conference, Spock had thought no one amongst his colleagues would notice on how he had fastidiously concealed the truth on the real nature of the metal artefacts retrieved from Hammerfest. Yet, Jim had.

 

Spock was a fast-thinker though; he knew he’d be able to find a way. However, it became unnecessary since Nero had all but overshadowed his intentions. And Jim could have a one-track mind. His lover’s focus on George’s death and the location of Kelvin site had blinded him to see Spock’s true objectives. The accusations his lover had flung at him then was off by a long shot. Still, Spock was impressed.

 

Finally done with positioning the plastic devices in all the rooms, Spock returned to the office and packed the radioactive suit into his duffel bag. Then he stood by the table, staring at the metal suitcase.

 

The Gift of the Gods had been found and secured, but it was not in the possession of Team Enterprise nor the Federation. What Jim and Uhura had recovered was not the Gift of the Gods but a skeumorph created by the King Ongentheow to fool tomb robbers.

 

Jim had been correct to point out that there was something amiss about the inverted Yggdrassil, and if his lover weren’t so engrossed with the retrieval, he’d have seen that the amulet would have fitted into the hole on the wooden mural.

 

When the opportunity came, Spock had returned to Edge Island to retrieve the true Gift of the Gods. He was able to unlock the small square opening that held the meteorite by the use of a replica of the amulet. As the sagas had implied, the religious relic came in the form of pure uranium --- this was enough to power one nuclear bomb. And that was where its value lay.

 

Now that he possessed it, it was time for him to leave.

 

Spock stepped out of the NCC-1701 bunker, his bag slung over his back and the suitcase tightly held in one hand. As he walked forwards, his mobile rang for a second time. “Spock.”

 

 _“Are you done?”_ said the voice on the other line.

 

“Yes.”

 

 _“Good. There’s been a change of plans. We’ll meet up in Paris instead of Copenhagen. Yeah?”_

 

“That is acceptable.”

 

 _“Alright. See you later.”_ But before their conversation could end, the person quickly added, _“Make sure you have the package and you leave no traces. Understand?”_

 

Spock nodded, “Understood, G.”

 

As soon as he returned his mobile into his pockets, the bunker burst into a series of timed explosions. The sound of blasting and churning metal cried from the Enterprise bunker like wails of tortured souls. Burning debris of all sizes rained down from the sky, tainting the pureness of the snow. Spock didn’t watch the spectacle, as he perfectly knew the extent of the damage the C-4 explosives he’d placed there earlier. He walked away without care as NCC-1701 bunker razed into nothing.

 

He might have the Gift of the Gods, but Spock’s role as the Atreides legacy was far from over.

 

 

 

 **END OF SEASON 0**

 

*****

  
Now onwards to **Authors' Notes!** ;) 


	14. Authors' Notes

Thank you very much for reading! We hope you've enjoyed the fic! ;)  
 

There will be sequels to tie-up all the loose ends. But that would be sometime next year. Summer, I believe! ;)

 

 **1\. FORMAL**  


We would like to thank the people of Norway for providing us with material for the development of this FANFICTION. You guys rock.

 

 **1.1. Sources (images):**  


 **Chapter 1: WAC POSTER**  


Sutton:  
http://students.cte.umt.edu/PrevStudents/F2010/Eric.Moore/Assets/sutton.jpg

 

King Raedwald Burial Mask:  
http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bDEcFbyNMBA/TKylWFFssFI/AAAAAAAAAlM/3PWon3U5ZpE/s1600/king-raedwald-helmet.jpg

 

Sutton Hoo Helmet:  
http://www.eastevents.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/WE-Sutton-Hoo-Helmet-AH2155.jpg  


Viking Shield:  
http://webzoom.freewebs.com/norstar1/1vikingsheild.jpg

 

Two-headed Axe:  
http://tenaji.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/axe1.jpg  


One-headed Axe shiny brown handle:  
http://www.king-cart.com/store/oknight/viking_402412.jpg  


Viking Sword Pommel:  
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f0/Viking_sword_pommel.jpg  
  
Sutton Hoo Gold Belt Buckle: britishmuseum.com

Sutton Hoo Shoulder Clasp: britishmuseum.com  
  


 **Chapter 2: Vendel/Viking Boat**  
[ http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3163/2959769588_931eb023d0.jpg](http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3163/2959769588_931eb023d0.jpg)

 

 **  
Chapter 3: NCC-1701**  


Bunker:  
http://www.let.rug.nl/arctic/cps.html  


Snow background:  
[http://www.ua.ac.be/main.aspx?c=louis.beyens&n=42685  
](http://www.ua.ac.be/main.aspx?c=louis.beyens&n=42685)  


 **Chapter 4: Mountain  
**[ http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3219/2895504829_a61e6ca589.jpg  
](http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3219/2895504829_a61e6ca589.jpg)  


 **Chapter 5: Total Station Just Got Totaled**

Total Station:  
[http://w24.indonetwork.co.id/sgimage/58/54058_53662_total_station.jpg](http://w24.indonetwork.co.id/sgimage/58/54058_53662_total_station.jpg)  


Ice Sheet:  
[http://www.earth-issues.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/ice-sheet1.jpg  
](http://www.earth-issues.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/ice-sheet1.jpg)[http://blogs.discovery.com/.a/6a00d8341bf67c53ef01348597c473970c-800wi  
](http://blogs.discovery.com/.a/6a00d8341bf67c53ef01348597c473970c-800wi)  


 **Chapter 6: Lightning Storm in Ice**

Lightning Bolts:  
[http://www.123rf.com/photo_10888066_two-thunder-lightning-symbols-on-white.html](http://www.123rf.com/photo_10888066_two-thunder-lightning-symbols-on-white.html)  


Mountains:  
[http://i.istockimg.com/file_thumbview_approve/3497738/2/stock-illustration-3497738-mountains.jpg](http://i.istockimg.com/file_thumbview_approve/3497738/2/stock-illustration-3497738-mountains.jpg)

 **  
Chapter 7: National Geographic Cover**

Erik Bana:  
[http://www.alwaysgirls.com/bigimage/1280/eric_bana08.jpg  
](http://wallpaper.arifira.com/wpps/actors/eric-bana/eric-bana-489802-1024x768.jpg)

 

 **Chapter 9: Yggdrasil  
**[ http://manderso.net/BOE/yggdrasil.jpg  
](http://manderso.net/BOE/yggdrasil.jpg)  


 **Chapter 10: AK-47  
**[ http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/36/Rifle_AK-47.jpg](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/36/Rifle_AK-47.jpg)  
  


 **Epilogue: The Final Frontier  
**  
Dossier:  
Cast Photos are from all over google  


Meteorite:  
[http://www.arizonaskiesmeteorites.com/AZ_Skies_Links/Sikhotes_For_Sale/Sikhote14.jpg](http://www.arizonaskiesmeteorites.com/AZ_Skies_Links/Sikhotes_For_Sale/Sikhote14.jpg)

 

 **1.2.** The following persons and places mentioned in the main text of the fic are REAL, DO EXIST NOW, and/or HAVE EXISTED BEFORE. We are **not affiliated** with any of the names listed below.

 

 **1.2.3. LOCATION AND INSTITUTIONS**

+ University of Oslo, Norway  
\+ Heidelberg University, Germany  
\+ Victoria University, New Zealand  
\+ Thief Fjord, Edge Island, Svalbard, Norway  
+ Radisson Blu Scandinavian Hotel, Oslo, Norway  
\+ Museum of Cultural History, University of Oslo, Norway  
\+ United States Naval Academy  
\+ University of Arizona  
\+ University of Paris (Sorbonne)  
\+ University of New Mexico  
\+ University of Oxford  
\+ The Viking Museum, Norway  


 

 **ORGANIZATIONS**

\+ Indo-Pacific Prehistoric Association (IPPA)  
\+ World Archaeological Congress (WAC)  
\+ Louisiana Archaeological Society (LAS)  
\+ Massachusetts Archaeological Association (MAA)  
\+ National Geographic (all medias)  
\+ Norwegian Army/Government  
\+ Svalbard Wild Life Reserve  
  


 **ARCHAEOLOGY**

\+ Vendel Era  
\+ Yggdrasil, and Norse mythology  
\+ Viking Era  
\+ Boat burials, burial goods, weapons, metallurgy,  
\+ Ynglinga Saga  
\+ All Norsk kings  


 

 **PERSONALITIES IN ARCHAEOLOGY/HISTORY  
**  
\+ Hjalmar Stolpe  
\+ Snorri Sturluson  
\+ Johann Kamminga, Ph.D.  
\+ Alfred Pawlik, Ph.D.  
\+ Claire Smith, Ph.D.  
\+ “Grandpa” Peter Bellwood, Ph.D.

 **PRODUCTS & OTHERS**

\+ Apple Inc.  
\+ Blackberry Company  
\+ Twitter  
\+ Blogspot

  
 **2\. PERSONAL**

We, coprolite_blend/coprolite and thebeadmaster would like to express our sincerest gratitude to [chosenfire28](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com), who made the awesome banner and poster, and [devyn_rose](http://devyn-rose.livejournal.com), who made a very wonderful mix to fit the fic; To laufei and crossedlamellar for being our betas. Thank you very, very much! You guys ROCK!!! <3

 **3\. OTHERS**

This is purely **fanfiction**. These events did **not** happen in real life.

Photos/poster from Chapters 1-Epilogue are made by coprolite_blend/coprolite; conceptualized by coprolite/coprolite_blend and thebeadmaster. Resources of the pics have been posted above. We do not intend any infringement. The only thing that I really made out of nothing were the schedule found in Chapter 1 and the vertical profile found in Chapter 8; the map in Chapter 3, I used Google Earth.

  
Once again, THANK YOU FOR READING!!!! ;)


End file.
